


Always With Me

by ClaroQueQuiza



Category: Overwatch (Video Game), Sen to Chihiro no Kamikakushi | Spirited Away
Genre: Field Surgery, Kinda, M/M, McHanzo - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant, Overwatch - Freeform, Slow Burn, Spirited Away - Freeform, Surgery, and McHanzo, but with Overwatch, cursing, mostly - Freeform, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 122,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8115694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaroQueQuiza/pseuds/ClaroQueQuiza
Summary: Jesse McCree finds himself in a bad situation. His commander has turned into a pig, he's working for eternity in a bathhouse, and there's a shadowy figure dogging his steps...
It's "Spirited Away." With Overwatch characters!





	1. Through the Gateway

McCree dashed from one tree to another, pressing his back into the rough bark of the trunk. He carefully sidled to one side and peeked around the edge, pulse pounding, Peacekeeper at the ready, his eyes narrowed, searching for even the slightest bit of movement. The air was close and humid, without the slightest breath of wind rustling the leaves overhead. Even the sunshine filtering through the canopy was motionless. The scene had the feel of the dusty museum dioramas McCree dimly remembered from field trips in elementary school. Everything was silent and still except for brief bursts of birdsong as the wildlife began to recover from the sharp reports of gunfire that had echoed through the forest scant minutes beforehand.

 

McCree edged back and turned his gaze onto his commander. Morrison was a few meters back, crouching behind another tree, his tactical visor obscuring his face, pulse rifle clutched against his chest. When McCree made eye contact, Morrison began signing with one hand, apparently reluctant even to use the comms stuffed in each man’s right ear. 

 

_ See anything? _

 

_ Nothing, _ McCree signed back.

 

_ We keep going. _ McCree nodded in acknowledgement and peeked around his tree once more before making the ‘proceed’ sign. Morrison then copied McCree’s movements, dashing a few meters ahead before smashing his massive back to a tree and checking for any movement. 

 

Over and over, the two agents repeated the pattern, moving as carefully yet swiftly as they could, trying to locate any sign of their quarry. McCree tried to keep a mental picture of where they were, straining to remember the maps they had reviewed before beginning the operation. The syndicate they had been investigating preferred to store contraband in safehouses and supply depots in the Japanese countryside before moving them all across the Pacific Rim. McCree and Morrison were part of a small force meant to pin down the current safe houses for neutralization, but things had gotten out of hand and at least five smugglers had managed to flee into the forest. They hadn’t had the number of agents necessary to mount a proper search party, so Morrison and McCree had headed out to see if they could at least figure out where they had gone. McCree had been annoyed. Forest environments were not something he was accustomed to, his wardrobe even less so. They’d already had to force their way through some dense undergrowth with bushes and branches grabbing at his serape and hat. At least the spurs on his boots were detachable; they’d’ve been making an awful racket in this seemingly abandoned corner of the countryside.

 

And it was looking like the hunt would prove fruitless. This particular area had been lightly touched by Japan’s immense population growth, but even so it seemed to McCree that they were approaching a small village or town. Their targets would almost certainly have reached it and either hidden away or fled in a vehicle by now.

 

McCree’s comm suddenly crackled to life with Morrison’s gravelly, raspy voice.

 

“McCree. Something was dragged through the dirt here, recently. Infrared signature looks fresh.” Morrison was ahead, still hiding behind the cover of a tree and a low, egg-shaped stone but kneeling, head bowed towards the ground, studying something. McCree instinctively scanned the area, looking for anything that might ambush him, before replying. 

 

“Y’think someone in that posse is injured?” 

 

“Maybe. I’ll see if I can get confirmation of any hits before they got away. If they are, we may have a chance to catch up. Proceed.”

 

They kept going, and McCree spared a look at what Morrison had found as he passed by. Something had left two distinct grooves in the damp soil. Boots being dragged across the ground maybe? Then he glanced at the stone Morrison was hiding behind and started. It was actually a small, waist-high statue with a worn and eroded face. The eyes were closed, and the slitted nose and wide mouth suggested something vaguely monkey-like. ‘Well, don’t that beat all?’ he thought to himself. ‘Who would take all that trouble just to leave in the middle of nowhere?’

 

After a period of advancing through the dense forest, both men could see something red ahead, peeking through the tree branches. They approached just close enough to make out it was some kind of long building, built with a balcony one or two stories off the ground with shuttered windows behind. A winding cobbled road led to a gaping tunnel in the facade. Everything about the building indicated neglect. The red paint was faded and peeling, revealing grey plaster underneath. The wooden balconies were cracked, with broken and dead tree branches entangled in the guardrails. The glass was smudged, almost translucent with grime. And the road had tufts of grass and even saplings poking through the cracks between stones.

 

The two men scouted a bit up and down the building to confirm that whatever its purpose, it was large. They returned to the tunnel and crouched, staring at it. After a while, McCree grunted. “I dunno ‘bout you, but it seems to me like this has all the earmarks of another supply depot. Place looks perfect for people to turn up their noses and walk away without taking a closer look.” Morrison didn’t reply, a tacit acknowledgement and agreement. “See any hostiles?” Morrison shook his head. “Then what now?”

 

Morrison’s fingers tapped the top of his pulse rifle. “We still don’t have a clear idea they came this way. We didn’t have any intel on more depots in Tottori, but I’ve been surprised before. My first instinct is to wait for backup. What about you, Blackwatch? What do you think?”

 

McCree stiffened at the name. This was only his third mission with Overwatch, and so far he hadn’t heard the term “Blackwatch” spoken with much respect. Black ops were always viewed with some suspicion (‘and with good reason’ he conceded), but there was definitely something more than suspicion in the looks he got at briefings and training from his “fellow” agents. Unconsciously, his metallic fingers curled around a pocket on his hip. He felt more than heard the crinkling paper.  _ Good luck, Jesse! Don’t let Overwatch make you go soft on us! _ Well, there wouldn’t be much opportunity to go soft when the agents around him didn’t have his back. Still...

 

“I say we have a look around. I reckon it’s another two or three klicks to the village I thought we were headin’ for. Maybe this here is where they decided to hole up. Even if it ain’t a depot, if they have injuries...we just keep nice and quiet like we’ve been, and we should be able to clear the building without too much trouble.” 

 

Morrison didn’t take his eyes off the building. “Been a while since I was on a covert sweep. Let’s roll.”

 

The sun had begun to lower in the sky, casting shadow over the entrance of the tunnel. They approached the building, keeping to the forest growth that took them all the way up to the wall underneath the balconies. There was no indication that anyone was inside, watching through the grimy windows. They hugged the wall as they crept towards the tunnel, Morrison dashing to the other side before sneaking a peek inside. “Looks pretty long,” he muttered. “Nice tight space with no way to dodge whatever they throw at us.”

 

“Any hideyholes or murderholes?” 

 

“None that my visor is picking up.”

 

“Then I’m pretty sure I can get them before they get me,” replied McCree with a glint in his eye. “They won’t have anywhere to dodge, either.”

 

Morrison seemed to ponder for a moment, then nodded. They entered the tunnel.

 

The only sources of light were at the mouths of the tunnel, and while there was a grey archway some way ahead of them, it was much dimmer than the ambient forest light they were leaving behind. McCree stepped carefully, his nearly two decades of Blackwatch leaving him with the almost supernatural ability to feel anything through his boots before he could crunch or snap anything underfoot. Morrison was not nearly so stealthy. Every once in a while he found a twig or pebble blown in by the wind, and the noise, while tiny, was still enough to echo, at least to McCree’s attentive ears. 

 

And there was something else, something...insubstantial, but enough to make to make the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Something making him nervous. He looked around uneasily, trying to pierce the darkness to reveal someone following them or holes in the walls blocked with gun barrels or even a mouse scampering over his foot. He noticed a cold draft blowing in behind them, almost following them, and for a moment he told himself that that was the cause of his jitters, but he didn’t calm down any.

 

McCree was the first to reach the other end. The tunnel ended abruptly, opening into a large hall, mostly empty but for a few uncomfortable-looking benches and pillars supporting a decorative vaulted ceiling. Sunlight poured in, colored by simple circular stained glass windows. On the opposite end was another open entryway, with green grass-covered hills beyond. McCree raised his eyebrows. “A waiting room?,” he hazarded as quietly as he could. 

 

“Looks like it,” Morrison said. Pulse rifle at the ready, he entered the room with sweeping motions. He paused twice for a moment each before returning to McCree in the tunnel. “Two more entrances, but they’re blocked with gates. We’ll check our three first, then our nine, but I doubt anyone’s been through here in a while.” 

 

McCree nodded. They performed a quick sweep, but each of the other tunnels didn’t allow much purchase before being blocked by immense wrought iron gates with thick bars. McCree brushed cobwebs and thick dust off what looked to be a sign, but the script was in Japanese characters. “Employees Only,” he mumbled to himself. “Probably.” The same dust and cobwebs were a good indication that nobody had passed that way, in years maybe. Certainly not today.

 

They returned to the waiting room. Still on alert, Morrison stayed on point with McCree covering him as they moved between the benches and pillars to the outer entrance. McCree glanced behind him. That strange perception hadn’t left him, and he felt almost watched by the three yawning chasms on the other end of the hall. 

 

They both paused at the sound of the train. The metallic rattling and scraping noises were almost out of a Christmas morning television program. At least, that’s the only place McCree had ever heard a train like that. The sound faded away. They looked at each other. “Any historic or novelty railways around here that you can remember?” asked a perplexed Morrison.

 

“Nah. Wouldn’ta fixed on one of those even if I did see it on a map, t’be honest.” 

 

“Maybe this place is only partially abandoned.” McCree could only shrug at that. They arrived at the door, carefully scoping out the view. It was dominated by lush, green hills, the kind McCree didn’t see until his first runs with the Deadlocks out into northern California when he was 16. A small path led out from this entryway, across a picturesque meadow and up and over a hill that obscured all but the roof tiles of even more buildings. To McCree’s bemusement, there were more statues, but these ones looked like old men buried up to the ears, with their bald and pointy heads pointing lopsided every which way. There were perhaps a dozen of them, scattered through the meadow. 

 

No sign of rails, or a train station, or anything to explain the noise. As they stood, one on each side of the doorway, the wind suddenly kicked up with a vengeance, swirling leaves and dust in and out. McCree’s serape fluttered violently, and he had to hold on to the brim of his hat. A low howling noise came from above. McCree shivered. He’d heard the desert wind make that noise many times before with the old abandoned barns and storefronts of his youth, but it never sounded any less bitter or lonely. 

 

The wind died down almost as quickly as it had whipped up. A single leaf fluttered down from somewhere above and landed right next to a dark streak near the middle of the threshold. McCree squinted. “Look here, commander. That look like blood to you?” 

 

Morrison looked it over. He tilted his head slightly. “Could be. Could also be some of the paint off the building. Pooled during a storm.” 

 

“Hmm,” hummed McCree thoughtfully. “Still. I’d hate to come all this way for nothing.” He looked out over the hill to the buildings just beyond. “I’ve been on a lotta chases where we had nothing to go on but a smudge here and there. If it’s all the same to ya, commander, I’d really like to keep going and see what turns up.” 

 

Morrison was silent for a moment or two. “All right. Keep your eyes open.” 

 

They cautiously made their way out of the building, but this facade had far fewer windows and openings where hostiles could take potshots. A clock face dominated it, but it wasn’t showing the correct time, and the hands were dull and in desperate need of polishing.

 

They climbed the path up the hill, but both suddenly dropped to the ground when they unexpectedly crested the hill to reveal a dry rocky streambed, with the nearest buildings almost immediately before them just on the other side of the stream. A stonecut road wound between the buildings to wide stone steps that led down to the stream’s edge. 

 

Still no one. They stood up, ever watchful, and crossed the streambed, jumping from rock to rock. Morrison was almost to the other side when he paused. “You smell that?” 

 

McCree didn’t until he reached Morrison’s side. Then it hit him: food. It smelled like being two blocks downwind of a restaurant, sweet and savory scents carried on a slight breeze. McCree even thought he could make out spices and mustard. He raised an eyebrow. “Somebody’s cookin’.” 

 

“Somebody’s cooking something amazing,” corrected Morrison, reaching up to his visor and detaching the faceplate that covered his mouth and nose.

 

McCree couldn’t help but chuckle. He hadn’t been with Overwatch long, but Commander Morrison’s appetite was legendary. Unofficially, he blamed his supersoldier metabolism. They hadn’t eaten in hours now, so of course Morrison would be thinking of food. McCree, on the other hand, could also pack away truly awe-inspiring amounts of food when he was in the mood, but somehow missions had a way of completely suppressing his appetite. Especially if he was nervous during a mission.

 

Which he was, he realized, as they climbed the steps and onto the road. He still hadn’t shaken that eerie, nerve wracking feeling. Something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. The street they were taking had brightly if shabbily painted, open storefronts facing the road, with signs spelling out names in Latin and Cyrillic letters, Chinese, Japanese, and Arabic script, Hangul...and all with plenty of hiding spots for hostiles. McCree realized, though, that Morrison was more focused on the smell of food than he was on potential enemy action. He was pausing at the small intersections as the road narrowed to little more than an alleyway in places to sniff the air attentively, turning in place until he decided which direction the alluring scent was coming from. It was like watching a big dog snuffling its way towards a hidden treat. 

 

It should have been utterly charming to see the big, scary boy scout of a commander acting this way, and McCree tried to lose himself to it. “Well, hey now, big fella, don’t lose your head over some grub,” he playfully groused. “Remember what we’re here for.” 

 

Morrison glanced over his shoulder as he led them through the streets past loud and clashing storefronts. “Aren’t you watching my back, Blackwatch? If anyone shoots me, I’ll know who to blame.” McCree snorted. He  _ was _ watching. He had put Peacemaker back in her holster some time ago, but his right hand was never far away. In fact, he was nervous enough to be making a mental map as they advanced, looking for landmarks and keeping track of their twists and turns in this little...whatever it was. Village? Hamlet? Except…

 

“Doesn’ it strike you as weird that ev’ry one of these places is a restaurant or bar?” he asked Morrison as they passed a fish statue embedded at the top of a small flight of steps. “Reminds me a’New Orleans. Nothing but bars and dives as far as the eye can see.”

 

“Could be one of those theme parks.” 

 

“Theme parks?”

 

“Yeah, you never been to Disneyland? They got a section called New Orleans Square. Looks a lot like this. Color palette is the same. Japan has a theme park boom every few decades from what I hear.”  

 

McCree hummed to himself, thinking that over. 

 

They turned onto a street that was much wider than the rest, a main thoroughfare of some kind. A few buildings down, they could see steam rising. “There it is!” called Morrison, breaking into a slow jog, McCree trailing behind. If anything’s gonna happen, he thought, it’ll happen now.

 

But it didn’t. Morrison found what he was looking for and was even urging McCree to hurry. McCree raised an eyebrow. Morrison was obviously hungry, but this?

 

“Look at this, McCree!” He was practically beaming as he surveyed a veritable buffet. It had bar-style seating surrounding an open kitchen, and the raised counter supported enormous bowls piled high with an array of delicious-looking food ranging from whole roasted poultry to dumplings to enormous grilled fish. The smell was almost overpowering, but in his current state McCree felt sickened more than tempted. 

 

“Well now, ain’t that the most highfalutin’ spread I’ve ever seen,” he ground out in answer to Morrison’s visor’s expectant gaze. “But what in hell is it doing here?” he added, taking his hat off and using it to rub the back of his head. He ducked under the short red curtains hanging over the eaves and frowned at the open kitchen. “That there’s woodburnin’ and it’s all piled up. All this grub is hot out of the oven,” he said as he watched steam rise off the plates, even in the humid evening air. “Who leaves all this out for no one?” 

 

Morrison chuckled. “Maybe there’s a wedding? Who knows. Listen McCree, relax.” McCree set his lips into a straight line. Commander Morrison was telling  _ him _ to relax? “There’s plenty to go around. I got some cash on me for emergencies; my treat, ok?” Morrison grabbed one, two,  _ three _ plates from the end of the counter, along with some chopsticks. With surprising dexterity, he used them to grab a truly egregious amount of food. When he selected all he wanted, he sat down heavily and proceeded to eat with a speed that bordered on reckless.

 

McCree stood off to the side, gaping. He’d heard of the commander’s appetite, sure, but this was excessive, especially in the middle of a mission. McCree was usually the last to be complaining about decorum and following protocol, but this was...astoundingly unprofessional. It was very unlike everything he’d heard about the commander while in Blackwatch, and unlike everything he’d seen in person.

 

That gnawing nervousness was now in full force, killing any appetite McCree may have had.

 

He grimaced as the commander forced an entire enormous dumpling into his mouth. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, ah, commander. If it’s alright with you, I’m jus’ gonna go and look around a l’il. Jus’, uh, jus’ in case.” 

 

Morrison, thank heaven, didn’t try to reply with his mouth full. Chewing furiously, he swallowed noisily and said, “You do that. Keep in touch over the comm, and report anything strange you come across.”

 

“Yessir.” And with that McCree turned away. It probably wasn’t the best idea to split up, but at this point McCree considered the mission to have gone to hell in a handbasket. He prowled back into the street, looking from side-to-side for any sign of life and finding none. The sun had already disappeared behind the buildings, leaving the street in shadow. The silence of the place provoked him. It was like being in a library, or a church, or a cemetery.

 

His eyes settled on yet another set of steps, these ones rising to what looked like a small plaza with a large, ornate, traditional Japanese lantern in the center. McCree huffed, then shrugged. He climbed up the tall, wide steps with long strides, breathing a little heavier by the time he reached the top. He walked towards the lantern, raising an eyebrow at it. This, if nothing else in this town, looked cared for. Bright red paint with no scuffs and a carefully pruned tree rising beside it. What was the style called? ‘Ponsai’? Something like that.

 

The wind shifted, and McCree smelled something distinctive. It smelled like mist, but with subtle overtones; swampy, flowery, with a little bit of sulfur? He turned his head.

 

There, to his right and across a bridge that gently rose and fell in a grace arc, half-lit in the rays of the setting sun, was an enormous building unlike any he’d ever seen. It was a rectangular building, with distinct Japanese architectural elements like the green ceiling tiles, upswept eaves, and covered balconies with sliding shutters, as if someone had taken the low, elegant houses he had glimpsed over the years in various missions in Japan and simply stretched them vertically to create a skyscraper. Set slightly behind and left of the building was a smokestack, but nothing visible came from the tip. 

 

McCree narrowed his eyes as he took in more details, unconsciously walking towards the building as if in a trance. He stepped onto the bridge and stopped, left hand on his hip and right hand jammed under his hat, scratching his head. “Well, don’t that beat all,” he muttered to himself. From where he stood he could see perfectly manicured trees, a flag with some kind of character emblazoned on it, and even a constructed waterfall from whence, he supposed, came the smell that caught his attention.

 

There was an entrance directly in front of him, no door. A short blue-and-red curtain hung across it, fluttering slightly. It was embellished with a  ゆ  symbol. Now why did that look familiar? He blinked at it. What did that remind him of? Something from--a previous mission--

 

From below him came a familiar metallic rattling, scraping sound. The train!

 

Tearing his eyes away from the entrance, McCree stepped to the handrail on the side of the bridge (also painted red, he noted. Everything around here was red), and his eyes widened at the chasm that answered his view. It was much deeper than he expected, and far, far below, perhaps thirty or forty meters below, was a dark grey floodplain. Railway tracks ran across it, disappearing into a tunnel cut into the rockface that the bridge rested on. A old-style electric tram burst out of the tunnel and continued on its way across the floodplain.

 

McCree followed the train until it disappeared under the bridge. He had half a notion to see where it was going, so he turned to hustle over to the other side of the bridge. 

 

He wasn’t alone.

 

He didn’t start, but he did have to force himself not to step back. No noise whatsoever had announced the sudden apparition, but there it was all the same.

 

It was a man, a man standing a few paces from him, and looking at least as surprised, if not more surprised, than McCree felt. He was shorter than McCree by about a head, but was slightly wider across the chest than McCree even in his body armor. He wore a baggy off-white tunic with some sort of dark blue undershirt, held tight to his waist in a way that accented his, ah, musculature, with a purple ribbon tied in a simple knot. Light blue baggy pants and wooden sandals completed the ensemble, but McCree’s astute eyesight soon found that the man’s face was most worth focusing on. 

 

Sharp angular cheekbones. An immaculately groomed goatee. Hair drawn up into a high bushy ponytail, except for a long tuft of bangs curling across his right cheekbone. Grey splashed across both temples, lending a dignified, wizened look. And eyes--

 

\-- _ those eyes. _

 

For a split second, McCree felt like he was drowning. 

 

It had been more than just the stranger’s eyes, dark as a deep, undisturbed pool of water at night. For a moment, McCree felt the air forced out of his lungs, the water swirling around his limbs, the pressure on his chest--

 

And then he was back in the present, with a gasp that he barely managed to stop being audible, and this man, this vision, was still standing there staring back at him.

 

Well, hodang, he thought to himself. Looks like today might be good for somethin’ after all. 

 

But all such pretenses were quickly shattered when the stranger’s face suddenly set into a determined, almost furious scowl. McCree  _ did _ step back then, as the stranger stepped forward imperiously. 

 

“You cannot be here! Go!  _ Now! _ ” 

 

Oh, that voice! chirped a part of McCree’s thoughts somewhere way in the back.

 

“Now hold on-!” was what came out of his mouth. “Me and my, er, friend were just-”

 

“No! You fool! It’s almost sundown! You must go before it becomes dark!” 

 

McCree knitted his eyebrows together. “What in blue blazes are you talking about?”

 

Over the stranger’s shoulder, he saw lights flicker on. The stranger looked over his shoulder, too, and  _ hissed _ . “They’re lighting the lamps. Go!” He grabbed McCree’s shoulder and forcefully turned him around, simultaneously pushing him forward. McCree yelled in surprise and doubled forward, almost losing his balance. He heard a voice in his ear, half-whispering, half-hissing, “I will hold them off. You must get across the river before dark. Go!” 

 

A final shove and McCree was half-stumbling, half-running off the bridge, across the plaza, and down the steps. Halfway there he managed to pause for a second. “Who-why- _ what the hell is his problem?! _ ” He almost turned around to give that handsome son-of-a-bitch a piece of his mind, but suddenly it struck him.

 

The five missing smugglers. They’re here. Either this man was trying to protect him or was one of them himself and had gone to fetch them.

 

No time.  _ No time. _

 

McCree leapt the stairs three at a time, losing his footing a bit when he crashed down the last three. He regained it, straightened, and took off at a dead run, making for the restaurant he’d left Morrison at.

 

Except-

 

-aw,  _ hell _ . What on God’s green-

 

The street was lighting up, the storefronts coming alive with splashy, gaudy neon. And each time another flickered on, more-

 

- _ things _ -

 

-shadows, blobs, masses of nothingness with two glowing yellow eyes. What were they?  _ What was going on?! _

 

McCree drew Peacekeeper, though he hardly knew what for. Smugglers, maybe, but hell if he’d ever seen smugglers rising out of the ground like black smoke shaping itself into form.

 

Time to get out of there.

 

He almost ran past the right restaurant, skidding and slipping as he realized his mistake. He could see Morrison still sitting on his stool, bent over his plate. McCree sprinted to his side. “Alright, suppertime’s over, Commander! We got hostiles and we gotta boogie on out!” he sputtered, grabbing Morrison’s shoulder to spin him around.

 

Morrison was a big man, but the weight and resistance McCree encountered surprised him. Not as much as the snout and beady eyes that greeted his own, though. McCree was really out of equilibrium, but to his credit he stepped back rather than jumped back. 

 

It was a pig. Wearing the commander’s combat uniform, the visor pushed up off its eyes to rest at a crazy angle about its ears, nestled among the shockingly familiar white hair perched between. McCree hadn’t had many opportunities to look the commander in the eye, but a shudder ran through him as he fixed on the stunningly blue irises staring out from the pig’s face. The pig, for its part, stared back almost doe-eyed, before turning away to sniff at another plate piled high with food. 

 

From behind the plate came a spatula wielded by a shadowy hand, whipping at the snout with a hard  _ slap!  _ The pig gave out a grunt before falling sideways, towards McCree. He scampered out of the way as the pig landed with a dull thump before erupting in almost bloodcurdling bellows and squeals. McCree stared for only an instant longer before hightailing it back into the street, weaving to avoid contact with the shadowy figures gathered there, already headed back towards the streambed.

 

‘Not Morrison. Not Morrison. Couldn’t be Morrison. How?’ He wasn’t quite panicking yet, but his mind went on a momentary tangent listing off hallucinogens, drugs, and head injuries that could explain what he just saw, but it soon snapped back to a more important question. 

 

Where  _ is _ Morrison?

 

McCree almost dug his heels in to stop, but then he remembered the comm. “Morrison! Where are you?! We got hostiles incoming, we gotta evac! Can you hear me?” he released the comm, listened to silence for a few moments before activating the CQ mode. “To any agent in range, this is Agent McCree! I am in hostile territory and require immediate evac! Does anyone copy? Over!” Nobody answered his call. He growled as he turned at the fish statue to descend the steps, letting out a little whoop of surprise at the far-too-tall shadow he found ascending them. As he fumbled past the shadow and down the steps, he fiddled with the comm, trying to activate the listening mode that would make all comms within range transmit. He regretted it a second later as loud pig squealing erupted in his ear. He nearly tore the damned thing out to pitch it as far as he could, but he managed to switch it off. He was approaching the streambed now, passing by the frog statue that had marked the steps leading down to it. Wherever Morrison was, he’d have to figure it out once he got backup-

 

McCree yelled as he splashed into deep, cold, _freezing_ _cold_ water. A strong current pulled at him, trying to wrench him from the shore, but he could still feel the steps under his feet, so he kicked himself backwards, back towards the shore. 

 

He crawled more than stepped out of the water, collapsing into a shivering heap. Where was he? He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. But where in hell had so much water come from?

 

He scanned his surroundings. Behind him was the same street, or what looked like the same street he and Morrison had taken when they crossed the streambed. But now, instead of a trickle of water and large flat rocks they had jumped over with ease, there was nothing but placid water, stretching far, far out ahead of him, dozens if not hundreds of meters across. McCree sat back, mind blank with surprise. Across this impossible river he could see what looked to be the waterfront of a town, lit a brilliant orange by streetlamps. And in the middle of the waterfront, a familiar clockface glowed.

 

“Shit. Oh, shit. Oh,  _ shit _ .” He kept repeating it over and over. He stared, completely flabbergasted. Impossible. Absolutely, positively, fu-huck-ing impossible, he simultaneously thought, numbly. He was so busy hurling his disbelief across the water that he failed to notice the ferry boat that had made its way to the steps he was sitting on. A sharp crack rang out, startling him out of his mantra, and he stared openmouthed as floating white masks poured out of the gangways, robes descending from nothing to give them a more humanoid figure.

 

McCree swallowed audibly. He felt that there wasn’t much more he could take-and besides, he was in an unknown situation, completely exposed, and with no idea of the intentions of these--creatures--no more than a few meters away. And even sitting there, shivering, scared,  _ terrified _ , he was suddenly tired, exhausted, even. He had to get away, hide away for a while, rest, regroup, figure out a plan. McCree began to carefully slink away, making as little noise as his soaked clothing would allow. 

 

He slipped away from the bright lights of the street and ferry, ducking behind one of the buildings on the edge of town. He moved sluggishly, almost drunkenly. It took all his strength to force his legs to keep moving.

 

He found a small space scrunched between two nearby outbuildings with no light and no one around--no one he could see anyway. He hunkered down, sitting on the ground with his legs splayed out in front with his hat in-between his knees, resting his back against the unfinished plaster of the wall behind him.

 

Sleep. What he needed now was sleep.

 

He let his head slump forward, blearily blinking as he let himself be carried away by his exhaustion.

 

And if he could see the grass through his legs, well, that just showed how dog-tired he was, didn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An explanation, you demand? I was at my sister's house, and she asked if I wanted to watch a movie before dinner. I picked "Spirited Away." And I spent the whole movie quietly replacing the characters with Overwatch and dying inside.
> 
> There will be some significant departures from the movies' storyline to accommodate for Overwatch, including some cultural departures. Please let me know if I make any mistakes or if I'm insensitive in any way. Thank you! Don't do anything I would do!


	2. Gaining Entry

Cold. Fog. Darkness. It was all so familiar, like the last few kilometers before arriving at home. He’d been this way before, a few times, once in a blue moon. He was skilled enough and lucky enough never to have reached the end of this road, but he knew it well after the gunfights, the stakeouts gone wrong, even an assassination attempt or two. The trick was go slow, drag your feet, dawdle as long as you could. Once you were this far along the road, there was nothing you could do but wait for someone to-

 

-grab ahold of you and  _ yank _ -

 

McCree came to himself with a long, rattling gasp, followed by a violent coughing fit. He tried to  double over, drawing his legs towards himself, but a firm hand on his shoulder fought to keep him upright. All for the better, he soon realized. His stomach was rebelling something fierce, clenching painfully as it fought with his lungs for priority. He could feel hot tears gathering in his tightly closed eyes.

 

“Breathe.  _ Breathe _ ,” whispered a voice in his ear. McCree readily obeyed, gulping air down between coughs, trying to get a hold of himself. His fit soon ceased, and he was able to breathe more normally, albeit with great shuddering breaths, his chest puffing out with each intake. Finally, he slowed his breathing and felt his stomach unclench, little by little. He tried to open his eyes, but immediately closed them when nausea washed over him.

 

“Wha-wha’ happened t’me?” he forced out once he felt like he could speak in anything more than a rasp.

 

He heard someone shift their weight beside him, the hand still on his shoulder, warm and comforting as bathwater. “ _ Tch _ ,” said the voice, disapproval apparent. “You fell asleep leaning against a wall. When you began to fade, you slipped through. You may be fading, but you still require air. You suffocated.” 

 

“Fade? Fadin’? What d’you mean, fadin’?”

 

“You humans do not belong here. If darkness finds you in our world, it seeks to make you its own.” 

 

The phrase  _ you humans _ forced McCree’s eyes open. He hesitated for a moment, trying to focus. His head was bent forward, looking down at his own legs, but something was wrong. He was sitting on tufts of dark grass, legs still drawn up almost to his chest, but he could see the grass  _ through _ his legs. It was almost enough to set McCree off again, but he held it together, barely. He looked to his right, at his companion.

 

Grey temples. Goatee. Handsome, though scowling, face. Dark eyes. The stranger from the bridge.

 

The stranger had his left hand clasped on McCree’s shoulder, the other hand digging into a pouch that hung from the ribbon around his waist, while looking earnestly into McCree’s face now that they had made eye contact. He drew something out of the pouch. A single red berry, held between thumb and forefinger. “Open your mouth. You must eat this,” the stranger said bluntly, almost thrusting the berry at McCree’s mouth. “If you do not eat something from this world, you will fade away to nothing.” 

 

“Now hold on-!” exclaimed McCree, moving to push away from him. He didn’t get this far in his chosen-well, “chosen”-career by accepting food from total strangers during missions. But as he tried to shove the other man away, he almost fell into him instead as his gloved hands, flesh or metal, met zero resistance. His eyes widened as he took in the sight on his arm seemingly impaled through the stranger’s chest, through the heart. McCree’s jaw slackened. The stranger took the opportunity to pop the berry into his mouth and cover with his hand, even trying to force his jaw to work.

 

“You must trust me,” he said in a stern, almost scolding tone. “It will not transform you into a pig. Chew it and swallow.” With such encouragement and still off-balance from his apparent incorporeal form, McCree mechanically chewed the berry, tart flavor exploding over his tongue before forcing himself to swallow despite his parched mouth. He felt the chewed mass make its way down his throat like a pill without a swallow of water. In spite of that, he felt a comfortable weight settle in his stomach, calming his nausea. The weight seemed to spread outwards, up his chest and into his limbs. He looked down at his body, watching solidity return and the grass disappear behind his newly opaque torso. At the last moment, with a jolt, he withdrew his arm from the stranger’s chest. In return he got a quirked eyebrow as he rubbed his hands together.

 

“Ah, I’m...I’m back? I guess?” his voice quivered a little.

 

“Yes. You see?” The stranger released his shoulder and took his flesh hand between both his own, rubbing slightly through the glove to take away the chill. His fingers didn’t pass through, and they looked as solid as they had ever been. McCree couldn’t help but snort a bit in disbelief. Then something occurred to him.

 

“Don’t prove much, though, donnit?” The stranger tilted his head ever so slightly, a quizzical look on his face. “You could touch my shoulder the whole time, y’know?”

 

The stranger’s lips twitched a little. Taking one hand from McCree’s, he took his shoulder in hand again and gently shoved him back. McCree almost feel over backward, but his back hit the rough plaster of the outbuilding he’d been leaning on before--before.

 

That got a bit of a hysterical giggle out of McCree that he quickly quieted. Now that his fit and the --fading--had been stopped, he felt his mind kicking back into high-gear, in mission-mode. He focused on the stranger with a frown. “Well, now tha’ tha’s taken care, you can explain a few things t’me, like, where am I? Where’s Commander Morrison? And who are  _ you _ ?”

 

The stranger shook his head. “I am afraid not. Not at the moment.” 

 

McCree huffed, “Now wait jus’ a doggone minute-” but the stranger cut him off.

 

“You are still not safe,” he said, letting go of McCree’s shoulder and standing, still holding his hand. “Especially out here. You cannot help your commander now, but perhaps we can-” the stranger abruptly stopped, looked over his shoulder, and then above, towards the sky. McCree tried to follow his gaze, but in a flash, the stranger had crouched down, pressing McCree towards the wall, trying to cover him with his own body. He was smaller than McCree, but it was obvious they needed to hide. McCree drew up as close to the fetal position as he could without knocking the stranger off-balance. His chest was pressed against McCree’s right arm, and he could feel the heat even through his sleeve and awkwardly bunched up serape. His head was still turned to the side and above, and McCree tried to peek around it, trying to see what he saw.

 

At first, there was nothing. Then a strange blue-white glow, soft yet piercing, crept over one of the outbuildings they were huddled under. Soon it resolved into, what? A bird? A plane? No, it was some kind of strange combination of the two. It was far too large and angular to be a bird, but the wings tilted and languidly flapped as it glided in low arcs over the rooftops. And on its underside, suspended like a hangglider pilot, was a humanoid figure. The strange light emanating from the flying apparatus illuminated her quite well despite the distance, and McCree quickly catalogued her appearance. Dark skin, slender, but if the thing was as big as he thought, she had to be quite tall. She was dressed in a tunic that fitted close to her upper body and fitted low over her hips, and close fitting trousers over her legs. The blue-white light made their color indistinguishable. She wore some sort of headgear with swept back prominences, like wings.

 

The stranger tensed as she came closer, and McCree could see his eye narrow as he followed her lazy circles over the town. McCree hardly dared to breath. Soon, though, the strange apparatus veered away and disappeared from view. The stranger relaxed for an instant, but he stood, pulling on McCree’s hand. “She is looking for you. We have very little time. We must run before we are discovered.” 

 

McCree looked into the stranger’s face. The scowl had been replaced by a look of grim determination, and he met McCree’s gaze evenly, almost challengingly. McCree briefly weighed his options. There was no denying he had no clue what was going on around here, and this stranger, despite everything, seemed confident and ready to, almost insistent on helping him. But he hadn’t entirely shaken off the idea that had come to him earlier, that this man was in league with the missing smugglers they had been tracking. If so, he could be leading him into a trap. 

 

Then he thought of the river that had mysteriously appeared, cutting them off from escape, and the strange shadows and forms that were, even now, walking the streets not too far away. And he thought about a pig, wearing Morrison’s visor.

 

He was in way over his head. He had little choice but to trust this man. For now. 

 

But McCree had trusted seeming allies before and nearly led to ruin. He’d be on the lookout, and as he shifted on the ground, he felt the reassuring weight of Peacekeeper on his hip. He wasn’t defenseless. So he could afford to let someone else take the lead for a little bit.

 

Mind made up, he made to stand up, only to fall back and slam back against the wall with a grunt. He tried again, but his legs weren’t responding, almost like he was paralyzed. A wave of fear coursed through him. “I-I can’t-my legs-” 

 

The stranger crouched once more, feeling McCree’s legs with his free hand. He nodded, face unchanging. “Take a deep breath. Relax.” McCree did as he was told, breathing, almost gasping a breath in before holding it. In the back of his mind, he expected something painful. Instead, the stranger drew his hand up and down McCree’s leg, almost caressing it, murmuring something under his breath in Japanese.  

 

Warmth shot though his legs, forcing his breath out in a rush. The stranger drew himself up to his full height, and literally hauled McCree to his feet. His legs responded perfectly. “Well, now,” McCree exclaimed, “what did y’-” 

 

But the stranger merely forced McCree’s hat into his free hand and snapped, “Hold on to that and come!” before breaking into a run, dragging McCree behind him. McCree let out a little whoof of surprise, then leaned forward and got into proper running form. He tried to let go of the stranger’s hand, but the grip tightened, insistent. McCree got the message and held on. 

 

Despite the awkward handholding, the stranger moved with impressive speed, not even breathing hard as far as McCree could tell.  His baggy shirt and pants rippled in the breeze as they ran, and McCree’s serape fluttered behind him like a pennant. Somewhere in one of McCree’s pockets, his spurs came loose and jingled as his heavy footfalls struck the pavement, an oddly cheery sound as they dashed through alleyways, backways, and narrow, deserted streets, never meeting a single soul. As the minutes passed, McCree began to wonder at his own stamina. It had been a long time since he’d run this far this fast, and while he was breathing hard, he was far from out of breath, and despite his earlier exhaustion, his legs had never felt lighter while carrying his big frame and bodyarmor. 

 

However, he was soon distracted by the deadend the stranger had led him into. He tensed, realizing the stranger had his right hand in his clutches, making it more difficult to draw Peacekeeper. He didn’t worry for long though as a doorway came into view and slid open to admit them. He glanced back as they rapidly passed through. The door slid shut behind him but-wait, had that stick just-

 

They dashed down a stairway and he had to whip his head around to watch his step before he could complete the thought, eyes widening as they rapidly passed gigantic jugs that came up to his waist, covers fastened on with thick rope. The sudden, overpowering smell of fish assaulted his nostrils as they ran through another doorway. He barely had time to try to cover his nose with his hat while looking around at the frighteningly huge fish piled up around them, some pierced with knives as long as his legs, before a heavy metal door sprang open in front of them with a loud whoosh of frigid air. The fishy smell seemed to be blasted off by the cold as they ran through. McCree’s boots slid on the icy surface, but the stranger’s grip was reassuringly steady throughout. They passed more fish, hard frozen this time, with nothing more than the scent of ice crystals in McCree’s nose and mouth as he breathed hard, feeling as though frost was forming in his lungs in the thirty seconds it took for them to burst through yet another heavy metal door out into the warm, humid night air. 

 

Another smell smacked McCree in the face: manure. He’d recognize that smell anywhere, but never in his life had it been so intense. The stranger was leading him towards a low building with a low sloping roof and open sides, lit with harsh orange light. McCree glimpsed what was inside a moment before they entered, his eyes going wide. He tried to rip his hand out of the stranger’s grip, tried to come to a dead stop and flee in the other direction, but the stranger’s grip was like iron, even when he tried to wriggle out of his glove out of sheer desperation. McCree, despite being taller, couldn’t even throw the stranger off-balance or slow him down. They ran into the hog lot, and McCree pressed his hat against his ear to try to drown out some of the noise. He wanted to close his eyes, but didn’t trust his footing enough. Instead, he resolutely kept his eyes straight ahead, almost unblinking, letting his eyes water and drown out some of the view around him. Mercifully soon, they were out from among the stalls, through a small haymow, out the exit and into the darkness. Now all he could smell was something flowery, but McCree paid little attention. His thoughts were centered on brilliant blue eyes.

 

Down a hill and back up a hill; that was all he noticed. At last the stranger slowed and came to a stop. Slightly above them was a simple wooden gate, silhouetted against the night sky by warm yellow light. The stranger still held McCree’s hand, but more gently than before. He was looking towards the gate, still as a statue and, as McCree had suspected, not even breathing hard.

 

McCree, for his part, was breathing heavily but not as heavily as he would have expected given the distance they had just covered. He wiped his brow, but more out of a vague sense that there should be a lot of sweat there, but there wasn’t. He didn’t have much of a chance to wonder at it, though. As soon as his breathing slowed, the stranger stepped forward, climbing the last couple of meters towards the gate, pulling McCree behind. From beyond the gate rose a familiar sight: the odd skyscraper, with the bridge where they’d first met. Now, though, every window blazed with light, casting a golden glow onto the bridge and plaza. And crossing them were-

 

McCree hardly knew where to look. Every figure he focused on was new, intensely strange, almost supernatural. Some figures looked like seven-foot tall, misshapen ducks with lilypads on their heads. Others were the mask creatures he saw earlier, cloaks falling over invisible shoulders and bodies and topped with black pointed hats. Still others resembled nothing more nor less than furniture brought to life: brooms with spindly legs, hats, and ornate cloaks, what looked to be a walking table complete with tablecloth sweeping down to the ground with dishes stacked on top, and on and on.

 

It was too much. He stopped, refused to move, almost toppled over rather than keep going, forcing the stranger to look back at him at last, expression still determined. 

 

“Wha’. Are.  _ Those? _ ” McCree almost spat the words, gesturing at the figures. “I ain’t gonna lie. This makes as much sense as tits on a bull, as a screen door on a submarine, as a-as a-” he fumbled for words, before just flat-out saying, “Hell, it don’ make  _ any  _ sense! Why’dya bring me back here in the first place? You told me t’run, earlier!” 

 

The stranger’ narrowed his eyes. He stepped away from the gate, back a little further in the darkness but still in sight of the plaza. When he spoke, the tone was angry, almost belittling. “You have left your own world. You have entered the spirit world, and here you will find little that you would consider sensible.” He waved his free hand towards the gate and the figures beyond, his other hand tightening around McCree’s. “‘Those’ are spirits, and they come in forms both more mundane and far more terrifying than you have any notion of. You will not survive here long without help. There are rules and laws in this world that bring terrible consequences if they are not obeyed, even by the ignorant.” 

 

McCree’s jaw slackened. “Spirits?” he whispered. “What are you talkin’ about?”

 

The stranger regarded him with an almost sullen look. “I cannot force you to accept the truth of my words,” he mused quietly, almost to himself. “I can only ask that you trust me.” McCree grimaced at the word  _ trust _ . He stared the figures. They seemed like they were all heading into the skyscraper. Only one or two had come out of it in the time they’d been standing there. His eyes focused on one that was especially strange. It was vaguely humanoid, but with no discernible outline, like an object badly out of focus in a photograph. It glowed with a pure golden hue that further obscured its body. It crossed the bridge slowly, finally disappearing into the interior. McCree waited until it was gone before forcing himself to look at the stranger again. No alternatives had occurred to him while he stalled. But he was going to get his other question answered, at least.

 

“So why’re we back here, then?” 

 

The stranger sighed. “We must find you work here. If you do not find a place to belong, somewhere to earn your keep, then you will be nothing more than a thief, worthy of a thief’s demise. This is the only place where a human could possibly find employment; the rest of the town is populated by the formless. You have no place there. You remember.” McCree felt a shudder go through him. “Here is where you will find work, but it will not be easy. The work itself will be difficult, and the staff will be--strange to you, as strange as you will seem to them. They will not welcome you. And Amari will not, either.” 

 

“Amari?” questioned McCree. “Who’s Amari?”

 

“She is the ruler of this place, a powerful sorceress. She does not care for humans, nor for anyone she cannot take advantage of.”

 

McCree huffed. “Sounds like a peach.” 

 

The stranger tilted his head, but apparently chose to ignore the phrase and continue. “She will attempt to cast you out and let the darkness take you. However, if you ask for work, she must give it to you. Then, she will be honorbound to protect you.”

 

McCree couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

 

The stranger merely shrugged, the gesture oddly informal. “You may as well ask why the sun rises in the east. It is law, since time immemorial. Perhaps it was meant as a protection for someone such as you, in your situation. It does not matter. We must get you into the bathhouse, and there you must ask for work. Then, only then, may we begin to work towards your leaving with your commander.”

 

A bathhouse. McCree’s eyes flicked to the short red-and-blue curtains waving over the entrance. That was what the symbol meant. A memory came floating unbidden to the surface. 

 

_ ¿Ves eso, vaquero? Eso quiere decir ‘fuente termal’ o ‘casa de baños’, ¿sabes? Están por todas partes en Japón. Cuidado con esas, pues tienen una forma muy estricta de bañarse. Si no lo haces bien, te echarán con la basura. O te miran feroz. Ven, te lo enseño. Puede ser lindo, si sabes lo que tienes entre manos. _

 

McCree shook himself. He forced himself to focus on the here and now. He caught a inquisitive look from the stranger, and pretended to be thinking about what he had said. Luckily, he did come up with a related question. “Oh yeah, abou’ that. What’s stopping me from leavin’? Y’know, just waitin’ for daylight and scamperin’?”

 

The stranger’s face hardened. “You would abandon your commander?” 

 

The sentence hit him like a blow to the face. McCree glowered, fire in his eyes. He saw surprise momentarily flicker over the stranger’s face. “Tha’s not wha’ I asked, partner.” He took a deep breath, forcing down the anger that had surged at the assumption that he would leave anyone behind. “Purely hypothetical. Wha’s stoppin’  _ us _ from leavin’?” 

 

“Entering the spirit world is not the same as leaving,” replied the stranger, stiffly, flipping his stray bangs to the side. “You would find the river, among other things. It takes powerful magic to return, or, better said, to return as you are. And your commander must be returned to his human form beforehand. That also requires powerful magic.”

 

McCree groaned inwardly at the mention of  _ magic _ . But he couldn’t deny the strange creatures walking just across the way, and he was getting further and further from denying eveything else that had happened. Morrison turning into a pig. That had happened,  _ really happened _ . Fuck. 

 

He forced himself to speak. “An’ this sorceress, Amari. She wouldn’ do it?”

 

The stranger shook her head. “She would not,” then, pursing his lips. “Well. For a price.” 

 

“Wha’ kinda ‘price’?”

 

“I do not know. That is something we must leave for another day. You have been lucky all your life. We must trust in that more than anything else.” 

 

McCree was taken aback. “Wha, lucky? How would  _ you _ know that I’m lucky?”

 

The stranger opened his mouth for a moment before pursing his lips and looking away. McCree looked down at their hands, still clasped together. He’d forgotten about that. It felt strangely natural, something that was a given and shouldn’t be questioned. He cleared his throat, bothered by his train of thought. The stranger looked back at him, dark eyes questioning. McCree blinked rapidly, trying to think of something to say. Despite himself, he didn’t want to disappoint the man behind that gaze. And wasn’t that strange? Like before, when he thought he’d abandon Morrison. McCree would never have done that, just on principle, but the violence of his denial had less to do with that and more to do with making sure the stranger knew it. That hardened look had, well. It had hurt in a way that made no sense for how long he’d known the guy. For a moment, he’d felt like he was drowning.

 

But now his silence was threatening to make things awkward. He sighed, absentmindedly swinging their connected arms. “I’m jus’ tryin’ to think of any more questions I got. Y’know, before we do this.” 

 

“We must go soon. You are not that difficult to find.” McCree snorted at that. Wasn’t that a question? How did he find him earlier? But the stranger was looking impatient. Maybe there’d be time later for more questions. Right now, he had a single choice, and that was to trust this man. For now. Although.

 

“One more question.” Now it was the stranger who snorted, his impatience laid bare. McCree couldn’t help but smile. “It’s an easy one, I swear. Wha’s yer name?” 

 

The stranger actually started. His eyes seemed to bore into McCree’s own, far more intense than McCree expected. He almost stepped back. Then the stranger lowered his gaze, staring at the ground. Almost as if he were sad. He spoke, with what McCree was sure was a falsely even tone. “They call me Han.” 

 

McCree was silent for a few moments. Then he squeezed the hand held in his own. “Well, then, Han, mighty pleased t’meet ya. I’m McCree.” 

 

“McCree,” Han repeated. “McCree.” 

 

“Uh, yeah. Ya got it.” McCree affirmed, hesitantly. Han nodded slowly. Then he brusquely turned away.

 

“I possess some magic of my own,” he said, not looking at McCree. “Enough to make you all but invisible. It is the bridge that we must worry about most; it is enchanted to reveal most intruders. The spell I will use is delicate. You must not breathe while we are on the bridge, or you will be discovered. Do you understand?”

 

“Uh, crystal clear. Jus’ tell me when I gotta hold my breath, I guess.” Han nodded, still not looking at him. He tugged at McCree’s hand, beckoning him to follow. McCree did. Han unlocked the gate one-handed and led them through the gate. He paused for moment and looked at their clasped hands. 

 

“It will look more natural if you hold me here,” he mused, transferring McCree’s hand to his upper arm. “Touch is the other important aspect of the spell. Do not let go.” McCree nodded, already unwilling to speak now that they were so close to the bridge. Han nodded back, and together they stepped towards the bridge. His spurs clinked in his pocket, and McCree glanced at Han to see if the noise was something to worry about. Han said nothing, so McCree focused on the sound to distract himself from his own nervousness, and maybe a little bit from the temptation to squeeze the mighty bicep his hand was now placed on. He glanced at Han again. His profile was striking, and from this angle he could see how well Han filled out his shirt. 

 

McCree felt a light blush warm his cheeks and he hastily stared straight ahead. Not the time, Jesse, he thought. Not the time.

 

McCree’s steps faltered when he saw the two--frogs? Frogs that were almost a meter and a half tall? That were standing at the bridge’s edge, lit paper lanterns in their hands, bowing repeatedly. Words, bonafide words, came out of their mouths. “Greetings! Welcome! Your presence honors us!” McCree couldn’t help but stare as they got closer. They were dressed in almost formless grey shortsleeved tunics and matching baggy pants that resembled capris more than anything, along with dark blue, almost black pointed hats with the point crooked back. Thankfully, they had faces that were vaguely human, but their bulbous eyes, far-too-wide mouths, jutting jaws and flat noses were almost horrific. And did that one have a mustache? It was too much. But McCree steadied himself. They were approaching the bridge’s abutment.

 

“Ready?” Han’s question was almost a sigh. McCree took a deep breath. “And hold.” McCree set his mouth into a determined straight line and, as an afterthought, pinched his nose closed with his metal fingers. He thought he saw Han glance at him, but otherwise they both kept their gazes straight ahead. McCree almost missed seeing the creature they fell into step beside. It looked for all the world like a cow with a yellow tablecloth draped on top with a bucket on its head. 

 

What was that even supposed to be? McCree asked himself almost lamentingly. Didn’t make a lick of sense.

 

He turned away from the tablecloth and saw something that made even less sense. They were approaching the middle of the bridge and standing at the handrail, still as a statue, was a figure dressed all in black. A hood and cloak was draped over its head and shoulders. It hung open but the light spilling from the bathhouse’s entrance revealed almost nothing. Just the glint of black metal thigh-high boots, possibly a design splashed across its chest, and its face--

 

Han and McCree were almost right next to the figure before McCree got a peek at its face, and all he could see was a mask, white, angular, and sinister. It looked vaguely skull-like, but not a human skull. It had an almost avian quality, with eyes that were empty and pitch black. The mouth gaped in an elongated V. McCree immediately thought of the three tunnels in the waiting room he had passed through with Morrison a few hours ago-though it felt like years, now.

 

The apparition did nothing and seemed to be bothering nobody. Everyone in front of them had passed by without a glance. He looked at Han. He wasn’t paying any attention to it. Maybe this was what was looking for intruders? McCree pinched his nose tighter and refused to look at it as they finally passed it and left it behind. 

 

It had taken about thirty seconds to reach the midpoint, and McCree was feeling comfortable, the air stale in his lungs but not yet straining for release. Another thirty seconds or so would be nothing. They were almost there already, with only another couple of meters to go.

 

“HAN-SAMA! HEEEEEY, HAAAAN-SAMA!” McCree felt Han tense under his hand, and his hand involuntarily tightened in response. Running, no,  _ gliding _ towards them was a bright green frog on roller skates. McCree pinched his nose still harder to keep the snort from coming out. It was a meter-tall frog wearing something sky blue, on roller skates. It-he-even had some kind of powerboard clutched in its long, green fingers. This one looked more frog-like than the others he'd seen, less anthropomorphic. It weaved between the guests with hasty yet graceful abandon. “Han-sama! Where’ve you been, man? Out doing some shit for Am-” The frog suddenly turned, clearly meaning to skate a tight circle around Han as he peppered him with questions. He had no way of knowing, of course, that there was a large man standing directly beside him, and so he crashed directly into that man’s shins with astonishing force, sweeping his legs out from under him.

 

McCree went down, hard. Even as he did, he desperately grabbed for Han’s arm, feeling first it then the sleeve rip out of his grasp. He bit his tongue to keep from yelling in pain, but the frog had no such pretensions. He squawked, loudly, and scrambled up far faster than those roller blades should have allowed him. He stared down at McCree, and McCree stared back. Time seemed to freeze for a moment, then the frog jumped back, yelling “Whaaaaho! A human?!”

 

McCree felt Han step over him, arm raised palm out. A strange black miasma flowered around the frog, freezing him and lifting him off the ground, face frozen, mouth agape. Han snatched McCree’s hand. “Come!” he barked and then-something-happened. Then was a great rush of wind and a sudden acceleration, and abruptly McCree was-floating? No, too fast for floating. Skimming, almost, across the ground, like a stone skipping across water. It lasted barely two seconds. Suddenly they were off the bridge and darting behind a group of women dressed in billowing, flowing garments. A blast of wind caused the garments to fan out, the women tittering in surprise. Han was still ahead of him, already crouched in front of a tiny door that looked just big enough to admit a child. It swung open, into darkness. Han gestured at it impatiently. “Hurry!” McCree scrambled to his knees and lurched forward. It was a tight squeeze, and the low frame knocked his hat off, but he scrambled through. He rose to his knees and turned in time to see Han following, his hat in hand. He turned, and quietly closed the door, sliding a fastener shut. They listened for a moment. The small door was through a thin garden trellis covered with black paper. They could clearly hear the commotion on the other side, including the voice of the frog. 

 

“I saw it! A human! Right here on the bridge! It might’ve gotten in!” More shouts answered, and Han turned away.

 

“Come with me.” He grabbed McCree’s hand and rose to his feet, McCree following his lead. Together, they dashed a few meters across what looked like an ornamental garden with carefully pruned bushes scattered throughout. Large windows overlooked the garden, with sliding doors permitting entry to the interior, but Han ran past, making for the largest bushes at the end of the garden. He pulled McCree behind them, out of sight of the windows. They crouched down as low as they could, and McCree tried to still his breathing so he could hear better. 

 

At first there was nothing besides the commotion still playing out on the other side of the trellis. Soon, however, they could hear pounding feet running up and down past the windows. Voices called out, “Han-sama! Where is he? Han-sama!” 

 

McCree looked at Han. Han was already staring at him. “They know you’re here,” he stated, flatly.

 

McCree grinned, to Han's visible chagrin. “I reckon so. After a spectacle like that, well. What now?” 

 

Han turned his head away, trying to peek over the bushes. “I cannot escort you through the bathhouse now. They likely want me to join in the search for the human intruder. We will have to find another way to get you to Amari.” 

 

More pounding feet. Both men fell silent as they passed by. Someone exclaimed, “Human! I can smell it! That human stench…” 

 

McCree involuntarily lifted an arm and ducked down to sniff. He looked back at Han just in time to see a rather unimpressed expression flit over his face. It was rather endearing. But McCree had other worries now. “I smell?” he fretted. “Is that how you found me? Earlier?” 

 

Han assumed an impassive face. “Humans have a distinct smell, yes. You have apparently chosen to overlay your natural odor with tobacco, which makes you even easier to track.”

 

McCree groaned and covered his face with his hands. “Woulda kicked the habit years ago if I’da known giant frogs would be sniffing me out.”

 

“It is the slugs you will have to look out for. Their sense of smell is twice as sensitive.” 

 

McCree dropped his hands to his knees and pinned Han with an accusatory look. “Slugs? What slugs?” 

 

Han simply quirked an eyebrow. “You may have mistaken them to be human women. In truth, they are slugs. They can mold their appearance more easily than the frogs, so I am not surprised you did not realize.” 

 

“And I stink to high heaven to them. What about me? How do they smell to  _ me _ ?” 

 

Han shrugged. “You may want to smell your lower legs. Lúci may have left something behind for you to test.” He quirked his eyebrow again when McCree gingerly ran a gloved hand over his shins and cautiously brought it to his face for a sniff. McCree didn’t detect anything too strong, salt and mud more than anything else. He made a disgusted face, tongue stuck out between his teeth. He turned his head when a small noise came out of Han, something almost like a stifled laugh.

 

Han froze, like a deer in the headlights, dark eyes open wide, a hand covering his mouth. A smile began to form on McCree’s face, but it died when another set of feet thundered past the window. The noise seemed to snap both men into a more serious frame of mind, Han muttering, “Enough of this foolishness. They will soon find where the scent is strongest.” 

 

“I reckon so.” 

 

Han looked at McCree with a calculating expression. “There is another way, but it requires that you face two challengers rather than one. And you will have to go alone.” 

 

“Alone? Wha’bout you?” 

 

“I must join in the search. I have already been absent from my duties too long. You will go on a more hidden path to gain entry.” Han suddenly leaned forward and pressed two fingers to McCree’s forehead. McCree started at the sudden warmth blossoming around the tips, then he felt a pressure inside his skull, just behind his forehead, as if something was pressing, pressing into-into his-his mind? “Trust me, McCree.” Han’s voice was soft, entreating. 

 

“I-I-” McCree stammered. The pressure increased slightly, just on the edge of a pain, but it suddenly disappeared. The warmth left his forehead. McCree clapped a hand to his forehead, finding Han’s fingers were gone, too. He shakily looked at Han, hand still pressed to his forehead. Han gazed back, eyes soft, almost sorrowful. He dropped his gaze almost immediately.

  
  


“No matter. Simply listen. Take the other little gate onto the outer stairway. You’ll find it behind you and to the left. It leads down the hidden side of the bathhouse. You must be careful, it is old and passes several windows, including the kitchen. Go down until you find the boiler room. It will be at the first large concrete landing, with a green door. Enter the door, and you will find where the bath water is heated. There you will find Lin.” 

 

McCree struggled to focus. He slowly lowered his land, lethargically committing the details Han was giving him to memory. He was far more interested in what Han had attempted to do with his fingers. But given that it had apparently failed, and he obviously wished to move on, McCree decided not to ask. Instead he said, “Lin?” 

 

Han nodded. “You must ask him for work. He will refuse, try to trick you into leaving, but you must insist. Once you have, he will send you to Amari, and you must do the same with her. No matter what, insist on working here. Then you will be safe.” 

 

More feet pounded past. Han looked over his shoulder, lips pursed. “We have no more time. Go. Both you and your commander rely on your success.” 

 

McCree bit his bottom lip and nodded. 

 

Han made to stand up, then hesitated. “You will succeed, Jesse. I meant it when I said you were lucky.” And with those words, he placed McCree’s hat on his head and stood fully, the light from the windows splashing across his face. His eyes were no lighter for it, but the grey hairs on his head and in his goatee were thrown into stark relief, giving him a regal, but suddenly unfamiliar look. McCree could only stare as Han turned away and walked purposefully towards the sliding door. “Here I am!” he called out imperiously. Some feet ran up, and the sliding door scraped open.

 

“Han-sama! Amari-sama requires you immediately!”

 

“Yes, I know. It concerns the task she sent me to complete.”

 

“No, sir! It seems that-” 

 

The voices had already been fading when the door scraped shut, cutting them off completely. There were a few more loud footsteps, but in the relative quiet, McCree sat, utterly still, staring at the spot where Han had disappeared from his vantage point. His lips moved silently, and his hands flexed, the metal one emitting slight whirring noises, whining at the sudden tension placed on the internal mechanisms.

 

Jesse. Han had called him ‘Jesse’. McCree thought back on their whole conversation, from the moment he saw him on the bridge, in his hiding spot, by the gate, and here, just now. He pored over every sentence, trying to find any mention of his first name. “I’m McCree,” he’d said to Han. Not Jesse McCree. Just McCree.

 

How had Han known his name?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> ¿Ves eso, vaquero? Eso quiere decir ‘fuente termal’ o ‘casa de baños’, ¿sabes? Están por todas partes en Japón. Cuidado con esas, pues tienen una forma muy estricta de bañarse. Si no lo haces bien, te echarán con la basura. O te miran feroz. Ven, te lo enseño. Puede ser lindo, si sabes lo que tienes entre manos.
> 
> See that, cowboy? That says “hot spring” o “bath house”, ok? They’re all over the place in Japan. Careful, they’ve got a very specific way to bathe in there. If you do it wrong, they’ll throw you out with the trash--or just glare at you. Come on, I’ll teach you. It can be really nice, if you know what you’re doing.


	3. Amari

More feet went pattering past, less hurried and lighter than before. Either the alarm was dying down or somebody was looking more carefully through the windows. It wouldn’t pay to stay and find out. The mystery of Han would have to wait. 

 

McCree shifted his weight, lowering from a crouch to all fours, wincing slightly as his serape caught on one of the bush’s branches, rustling. He froze, listening intently. No shouts of discovery. No scraping from the sliding door. 

 

McCree slowly crawled around the bush, keeping as low as possible. In the dim light that managed to make its way to his position through the bush, he spied the little door, also held shut with a sliding fastener. He tugged at it, hearing a small squeak as it slid loose. The door also squeaked as it swung open, McCree swearing internally far more than was merited by the slight noise. He squeezed through, mindful of his hat this time. It was slightly lighter out here. McCree was crawling onto a wood platform about four or five meters square. To his left across a gulf he could see the bare cliff face lined with hedges that hid the gate they had stopped at from view. To his right was a sight that promised very, very little.

 

Han had been right. It was old, sun bleached with wide cracks splintering the old wood. No handrail, of course, and it didn’t even hug the wall. Spindly supports jutted out from the side of the building, looking far too thin and spaced out to give the stairway stability. Instead of a straight descent, it angled slightly every so often away and toward the bathhouse, pretty unnecessarily, McCree thought. Every so often, a window threw a tiny square of illumination onto the steps, but otherwise there were no sources of light. Far below, he could see the railway tracks. As if to give him a sense of scale for just how far down it was, another old-style electric tram rattled past, headlights blazing. It passed under a small suspension bridge that connected the bathhouse to a large outbuilding, but from all the way up here they all looked tiny. The wind tugged briefly as his hat.

 

McCree took a deep breath, let it out, then took another. Heights were not something he was afraid of. He was afraid of more practical things, like rotten or split wooden steps that might throw him off of a great height. 

 

He thought through his options. Finally, he crawled to the top step, swung his legs in front of him, and tested the strength of the step below. It held, but when he briefly put most of his weight on it, it creaked too much for his comfort. That settled it. He started down, but spread his weight between his legs, rump, and elbows on different steps in an awkward semi-crabwalk, his height making it easy to reach different steps despite the long distance between stairs. He found several planks that creaked as alarmingly as the first one, and he soon came across one that produced splintering noises from just a little weight from his legs. He skipped that one. The Blackwatch in him wanted to mark it in case he had to come back this way, but he didn’t think he could spare the time. This method of descending was safer, but tricky, exhausting, and time consuming. McCree had no idea what time it was, but the night had to be wearing on, and he didn’t know whether he was on a time limit or not. Given what had happened when the sun set, he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen when the sun rose.

 

Finally McCree hit on the idea of sliding, putting his elbows on the stairway’s sideboards, resting most of his weight on them. It was steep enough that if he kept his heels up, gravity took over, but not too quickly to make him lose control. Every time the stairway angled, he could jam a heel in the small corner the sideboard created on the outer side of the turn if he felt he was going too fast. All in all, a good solution, he felt, despite the risk of splinters. He tried to spread and maneuver his serape to act as a second layer between his elbows and shirtsleeves and the wood, but inwardly he dreaded the damage it must be doing to the fabric. He liked this serape, dammit.

 

Now he was descending about as fast as if he’d been walking upright. He did miscalculate on a particularly long and straight portion, though. His arms, fatigued by his weight and the long descent, were starting to give out on him, and that distracted him enough that he didn’t realize how fast he was going until a scrape and a rattle from below caught his attention. He was heading for a what looked like a concrete landing, with a rectangle of light being thrown down by a window. Except there was a silhouette in the rectangle: a head and an arm. Someone was opening the window. 

 

McCree silently cursed and dug his elbows into the wood. He slowed, but not fast enough. If he tried to catch himself with his heels, the noise would surely attract attention. He sat up slightly to use his rump instead, the jeans and leather chaps doing little to stop the jarring bumps from rattling his spine, but it did the job. Luckily, his spurs were sandwiched in his pocket in such a way that they couldn’t make any noise as he thumped from step to step. He came to a stop about three meters up, and he watched breathlessly as a frog leaned out the window alongside a puff of misty condensation, cigarette in hand, and released a huge cloud of smoke from his enormous mouth. That, along with the darkness, seemed to obscure McCree enough that the frog took no notice of him whatsoever. McCree could hear plates clinking and clacking and innumerable voices calling out. The kitchen, then. The frog remained there for a few minutes before a voice called out loudly, close by the window, and the frog answered, “Yeah, I’m done,” and slid the window shut with a sharp bang. McCree relaxed and waited a couple minutes more before scooting the last few steps to the concrete landing. It was small, and there was no door. He supposed the one Han meant was further on, but he did note with relief that the steps were made of concrete from here on, flush to the wall of the bathhouse, and they looked far more trustworthy. He edged past the window, hugging the wall, and continued down.

 

He stepped down normally, and below he saw another landing, much bigger and lit with a solitary lamplight. He felt fairly certain he would find the green door there. To his dismay, the last few concrete steps had collapsed, leaving only the treads jutting out from the wall. He hopped from one to another as quickly as he could, not trusting them to hold his weight.

 

Finally he stood on the landing, breathing slightly heavier, staring at the green door. He was next to one end of the suspended bridge from up above, and he could hear the slight hum of pumps coming from pipes the bridge carried from the outbuilding straight into the wall of the bathhouse itself. This must be where the water was pumped in, he surmised. 

 

Feeling exposed under the harsh orange light of the lamp, he grasped the doorknob and tugged the door open. A breeze was immediately drawn into the building and fought the door’s opening and tried to slam it shut when he stepped inside. He kept careful control of it, easing it silently closed.

 

Heat and humidity seemed to punch him in the face, causing sweat to instantaneously break out on his forehead and neck. He could almost feel his hair curling where it brushed against his neck and under his hat, and his shirt and jeans suddenly felt sticky against his skin. He was standing in a short hallway filled with unidentifiable machinery and plumping, peppered with gauges and large handwheels, lit an ominous, flickering red-orange from the far end. There he could see the floor change from concrete to wood and then end, dropping off into a slightly sunken pit of some kind. Beyond was another raised wooden platform and what looked to be a low doorway behind. The walls were covered in what looked to be drawers crisscrossed with metal tracks of some sort, from the wall on the right, over the doorway and out of sight to the left. A shadow swept over the platform, vaguely human-shaped, stretched and enormous.

 

McCree swallowed. Lin? There was only one way to find out. He crept forward, prevented from hugging either one side or the other of the hallway by the plumbing, which he found was at least one source of the intense heat. He briefly thought of having Peacekeeper at the ready, but kept her in her holster. Slowly he came to the end and, removing his hat, peeked around the corner.

 

The room was cavernous, but the pit and shelving section felt almost cramped because of the immense, almost overwhelming machine that occupied almost the entire space. It had a bulbous, almost organic look, with several drum-like vessels topped with conical lids in a hodgepodge of angles and configurations, strapped together with a web of pipes ranging from pencil-thin to thick enough to let a person climb through. Flames and steam erupted from seemingly random points, all swept towards the enormous fans that rotated deceptively slowly in the ceiling, drawing air up and out. Despite the strong air flow, McCree thought he could detect the faint scent of natural gas. A low hum pervaded the entire space, more a persistent vibration than a sound. It was surprisingly quiet to McCree’s ears, but he could feel the vibration in his chest and bones. 

 

Overhead, a gantry wheeled into view along the metal tracks the extended along the ceiling. It transferred to the vertical tracks in front of the drawers, sliding down before stopping at a drawer. A mechanical hand unfolded itself, drew open the drawer, and scooped out something with a small basket-like tool. It pushed the drawer closed and returned to the horizontal tracks on the ceiling, trundling out of view.

 

And here and there, jumping and running along the pipes and climbing bits of netting draped across different sections of machinery, were bots. At least, they looked like bots to McCree; they didn’t look like any he’d seen before, though.They all gave the impression of having been made from scrap. Each one was different, squared off, rectangular, spherical, pyramidal, with two, three, four, five or six appendages randomly placed on their chassis, sometimes acting as legs, sometimes as arms as they tumbled and leapt between different sections of the machinery. Some were shiny or silvery, others were badly rusted, squeaking and clinking with every movement, still others were various loud shades of yellow, orange, red, and blue, seemingly made from high-grade industrial plastic rather than metal. They ranged in size from the size of McCree’s fist to a couple of waist-high units that marched around the base, mechanical arms and graspers slack at their sides.

 

A grunt drew McCree’s attention to a small raised platform directly in front of the machine. There he could see a small figure whose shadow was splashed across the pit and across the entrance where McCree stood. McCree peered at him, trying to see more detail, but the figure was so short it was hard to see anything. It did seem to be far too top-heavy, for what it was worth. It seemed to be leaning over something, and from across the room McCree could barely hear what sounded like annoyed muttering.

 

The figure soon straightened, though this did not add much to its height. It turned and McCree could finally see its face.

 

Some of his face. Most of it was hidden by an enormous mustache and beard divided in two plaits that reached past his waist. One eye was covered by something red; an eyepatch, perhaps? On his back he carried some sort of heavy, metal-plated pack from which two metallic graspers sat neatly folded up. One bare, muscular arm had a big tattoo of two gears splashed against the shoulder. The other arm was simply a giant red mechanical claw. He wore a set of red and brown leather work pants covered in countless, bulging pockets. And he was lucky if he was any taller than the frogs McCree had seen earlier, no more than a meter and a half.

 

Not the person McCree had expected by a long shot, if this was indeed Lin. He chewed his bottom lip, considering. He slowly withdrew back into the hallway to think for a moment, sliding his hat back on. Han had said to ask for work. Any work? Should he ask to work for Lin specifically? Han had mentioned that the work would be difficult, and that monster of a machine looked like it took an army to maintain. McCree was no mechanic; he limited himself to fooling around a little on the motorcycle he’d managed to acquire years ago. With a small ironic smile, he wondered what this place’s training program was like. 

 

He shook himself. It was time to go introduce himself without any more lollygagging. His smile widening, he looked down at the ammunition hanging off his belt and Peacekeeper weighing on his hip in her holster. All that wouldn’t paint a mighty friendly picture when he walked around the corner. He stepped back further into the hallway and quickly stripped off his serape and undid the ammunition and holster belts, adjusting the buckles on each, enlarging each’s circumference a bit. He hoisted both up and over his head and laced his metal arm through until each lay across his chest like a bandolier. His holster belt had a clip on it that he attached to one of the straps holding his body armor snug against him, keeping Peacekeeper pressed against his shoulder blade. He donned his serape again, adjusting it so it draped a little lower over his chest than usual, hiding the belts beneath. He experimentally reached his right hand behind him, testing his reach and making sure Peacekeeper and the serape were positioned properly. He’d used this trick before when it was necessary to appear unarmed. It was harder to reload with the ammunition jammed under his armpit, but he’d gotten pretty good at it over the years. He was even better at making sure the six rounds in Peacekeeper were all he needed.

 

Making a slight adjustment to the holster belt, he almost missed the gruff yell. “Check tee secondary gauges! Ve got a loss of pressure somevere!” But he never would have missed the heavy, thudding steps that quickly and alarmingly became louder, setting small tremors in the concrete below his boots. McCree backed up precipitously towards the green door. Another shadow, a much larger shadow, was overtaking the light coming into the hallway, darkening everything. At last McCree saw a large multi-articulated leg step onto the platform, followed by another as a large hulking frame swung into view, two plus meters tall and blocking the entire hallway entrance. It had a large blocky torso and broad shoulder guards draped over thick rectangular arm modules, one of which ended in a simple hand, the other in what looked disquietingly like a gun barrel several centimeters across. Perched on top was its cuboid head with a two large, rectangular diodes.

 

McCree stopped dead in his tracks, hand on Peacekeeper behind his head, but not quite daring to draw her. The hulk before him stopped with an abruptness that was purely robotic, blue diodes shining in the darkness, fixed on McCree. For a moment, they stared at each other, silently. 

 

“ _ Woo! Woo wee wee woo! Chirr dweet weewoowee! _ ” And it scrambled backwards, almost slipping and sliding out of view. 

 

McCree continued where he was, at a bit of a loss. If he weren’t seeing things (and to be honest, he’d seen a  _ lot _ of things today), he’d’ve sworn he had startled the colossus. He heard its heavy footsteps stomp a few times before more whirrs and beeps erupted. The gruff voice soon answered. “Vat are you blatering about? Vat? Slow down, you miserable pile of sticks and metal! A vat? A  _ vat?! _ ” 

 

A heavy thud echoed, and lighter but still rather metallic footsteps crossed towards the hallway. McCree tensed as the voice called out, “Come out! I don’t know vat you propose to do in tere, but come out vere ve can see you!” 

 

McCree glanced at the door behind him. He wasn’t sure what to make of all this, but Han had said nothing about a gigantic war machine lurking in the boiler room, which McCree felt should have been mentioned before sending him off on his own. He tried to think quickly. He had nowhere to go out there, and Han, his only ally, was somewhere in here. And if that was Lin--well, McCree could only hope this bad way of acquainting himself wasn’t a dealbreaker in finding work here. McCree sighed, and reaching behind himself, gave one final adjustment to Peacekeeper and fluffed up the serape to better conceal her.

 

“Alrigh’! Alrigh’! I don’t mean to do anythin’! I’m comin’ out!” he called out, mind momentarily flashing to when he’d first surrendered to Blackwatch when they had come to root out the Deadlocks. If he played his cards right, he’d get a job out of this situation, too. The thought bolstered him, and he slowly walked down the hall and edged out into the open, hands reaching for the ceiling.

 

The short man was standing in the middle of the pit, mechanical claw raised menacingly, but otherwise seemingly unarmed. Behind him, almost  _ cowering _ behind him, was the hulk, and in the full light McCree started at the details he could now see. Rather than metal plating, it was covered in what looked like wood paneling, with sweeping designs that looked like minimalist flowers or seashells inlaid on the few patches of metal left open to view. 

 

It looked far more artisanal than warlike.

 

Even what had seemed to be a gun barrel looked strangely non-threatening now that McCree got a good look at it. It looked like it might be more of a tool than anything, though its actual purpose escaped him. 

 

Both man and machine were regarding McCree, the man with a rather unfriendly expression. McCree swallowed inaudibly then tried to work as winning a smile as he could. “Well, howdy,” he began, trying to sound as confident as possible. “I hear you may be able t’offer some work t’a humble drifter?” He inwardly scoffed at his own words, but it was the best he could dredge up given the circumstances. 

 

The man, for his part, growled out, “Vork? Tat is vat you come for?” 

 

“Uh, yeah. I was told t’come find Lin and ask if I could come work for y’all.”

 

“And who told you  _ tat _ , human? I am Lin, slave to the boilers of this accursed place, but I have no vork for you here. Begone vit you!” 

 

McCree frowned, hands still raised. “Is this abou’ the scare I jus’ gave to y’all? Sorry ‘bou tha’, but it, well, you-” he amended, nodding at the wood-panelled hulk still doing its best to hide behind Lin, “-startled me as well. All I was told was t’come down here and ask for work. So, uh, can I work here?” he paused for a moment. “Please?” he added, feeling a bit foolish.

 

Lin narrowed his eyes. “You do not listen very vell, do you? I say it vonce more: I have no need of you.” He lowered his claw and turned away dismissively, walking past the hulk towards the raised platform, heavy metal boots clinking against the concrete. The hulk, for its part, looked between Lin and McCree with alarm before whirring a bit with anxiety and quickly stomping to the other side of the platform before turning around and regarding McCree from its new shelter. McCree tried to smile reassuringly, but it still visibly started as he stepped forward off the platform and lowered his hands.

 

McCree’s smile turned sheepish. “Hey now. Sorry to give you such a fright, big fella. Didn’ mean anything by it.” The hulk cocked its head slightly at his words, but didn’t make any other movements or sounds. McCree nodded awkwardly and turned back to Lin. He had climbed back up the platform and was busying himself with a low console that took up nearly an entire side. It was absolutely covered with a myriad of buttons, gauges, and blocky, old-fashioned computer screens. It all looked indecipherable to McCree. He didn’t climb up, though. He had a feeling crowding or towering over Lin wouldn’t help his case any. Instead he said, “I hear ya, but if it’s all the same to ya, I need t’work here.”

 

He heard a scoff come from Lin. “And vat, exactly, do you tink you vill do here? As you can see, I already have all te vorkers I need. I should know. I built and enchanted tem all myself.” 

 

McCree glanced at the smaller bots still scrambling over the vast machine in front of them. A few seemed to be pausing to stare at him for a few moments before skittering and swinging away to another position. Now that he was closer, he could make out even more gauges, knobs, and handles scattered on the surface of what he guessed to be cisterns and boilers full of water. Each was being visited by a bot, which stopped to peer at a gauge or turn a handle every so often. It looked terribly complicated. He turned back towards Lin. “All the same. I’m askin’ for work, and I’ll keep askin’ til I get it.” 

 

Lin turned to him then with a calculating look. “You vill, eh?” he grunted. “Tat means noting to-” Suddenly, a deafening  _ whoop!-whoop!-whoop! _ erupted from somewhere in the room, causing both men to jump. The smaller bots on the machinery began to swarm like ants every which way.

 

“Wha-”

 

“Pressure is spiking!” yelled Lin, jumping to the console and furiously pressing buttons. “The boiler! If the pressure is too much, it vill explode!” McCree backed away from the platform, glancing at the hulk still huddled by the platform. It rose to its full height, moving to stand directly behind Lin, its head level with his even while standing on the ground. 

 

“ _ Dah sh-sh-zwee _ ?” Even to McCree’s ears, it sounded worried. 

 

“No! It’s not te main boiler, it’s vone of te-no, vait. It’s more ten vone of the side boilers. Hey! You lot!” yelled Lin imperiously. “Side boilers tree, six, and seven! Release te valves!” On the machinery, the small bots split into three roughly equal groups and fanned out, crossing out of sight over the sides, deeper into the cavernous room, the clicking sound of their appendages sounding like an aspen forest during a windstorm. 

 

McCree watched them go, biting his bottom lip. He turned back to Lin. “Wha’ can I do? Anythin’? he bellowed over the alarm that continued to blast out  _ whoop!-whoop!-whoop! _

 

Lin didn’t look up from the panel. “Not a ting, human! Get out of here!” The last word was almost drowned out from a loud roar, the sound of steam escaping. McCree could see huge clouds pouring up from somewhere further into the room, too quickly to the cleared by the fans in the ceiling. The alarm didn’t stop, though. Lin was still prodding and pounding on the console, swearing loudly in what seemed to be Swedish.

 

McCree scowled, as he turned in place, pulse pounding. He hated to be doing nothing during an emergency. “I can help!” he shouted, moving closer to the platform to be heard better. “Tell me what t’do and I can-” but Lin cut him off.

 

“Boiler 14 is spiking!”

 

“Wha’?”

 

“Vasn’t talking to you!” snapped Lin. He whirled around, addressing the hulk behind him. “Bastion! Tere are no more constructs to correct te problem, and the overpressure valve is inaccessible to you. We have no time! Take me back tere so I can reach it!”

 

“ _ Hee dah-dah doo woo woo weeeee! _ ”

 

“Ve’ll just have to hope noting more happens vile I’m avay!”

 

“ _ Woo wee! _ ”

 

“Hey!” Both stopped and looked at McCree. “You gotta stick aroun’ here in case somethin’ else happens, right?” he hollered at them. “I’ll do it! Wha’s it look like? Jus’ a handwheel?” 

 

“Vat are you-” 

 

“Jus’ tell me what t’do!” 

 

Lin didn’t move, his look calculating once more. McCree stared back, unwavering. Next to Lin, the hulk-Bastion-let out a low whistle.

 

Then from the other side of the room someone called out, “Alright, alright, I’m here! I got it! Geez! Turn it off already!” 

 

McCree whirled around, trying to see who it was, but Bastion blocked whoever it was from view. He did see Lin sigh, and with consummate easiness of mind, he leaned against the console and punched a single button. The alarm dropped off with a long, sad, slow  _ whoooooo _ , and the roar cut off abruptly. The column of steam stopped rising, and the great cloud above their heads started to be drawn away into the fans.

 

The newcomer laughed. “Spirits, Lin! If you wanted your dinner so bad, you could have sent one of your bots to fetch it. Wouldn’t have gotten here any faster, but at least you wouldn’t be blasting off your own ears.” Lin turned away from McCree and jumped off the platform, landing behind Bastion. Bastion itself was still regarding McCree, making soft  _ woo _ sounds. 

 

McCree could only look back, an eyebrow raised.

 

“No hello? Not even a ‘thank you’? Hey Bastion! Did you step on his favorite wrench or something?” Light footsteps approached from behind Bastion, clicking slightly, almost like high heels, but otherwise inaudible. Finally the owner of the voice walked into view, carrying a tray, and stopped short.

 

McCree blinked. Whoever it was was dressed almost identically to the pair of frogs he had seen earlier at the bridge, grey baggy tunic and shorts with a green colored ribbon tied around the waist. But this person was taller than the frogs, almost average height for a human. About as tall as Han, actually. But the most arresting feature was the mask, or helmet, really. It covered his entire head with soft cloth that thinned over where the eyes should be. The cloth was mostly silvery white, but over the eyes it was pale green, and the same green lightly traced out spiraling, flowing designs over the surface of the helmet. It did seem to have some sort of frame under the cloth, shaping it into a form that vaguely resembled pointed wings over where the ears would be. 

 

There was silence for a pair of seconds, then the masked man belted out, “So  _ here’s  _ the human! They’re pitching a fit about you upstairs! How the hell did you get all the way down here without being seen?” Before McCree could answer, the figure turned. “You’re going to catch it, Lin! Amari is hellbent on finding this guy! If she finds him here with you-!” The voice was masculine and youthful, with a completely informal tone.

 

Lin walked back into view, a small bowl in one hand, a jagged fork in the other. “Him? He’s new. If Amari is looking for him, so much te better. He’ll be vorking here as soon as he sees her.”

 

“ _ Working _ here? No way!” 

 

“Oh, yes. He says he vants to vork, and I haven’t managed to chase him avay.” He suddenly switched to addressing McCree. “You vill have to sign a contract with Amari. Might as vell try your luck vit her.” Then back to the masked man. “Take him up.” 

 

“And risk my life? I’d rather not have a second brush with death, thank you.”

 

“How are you liking te fishfood up tere? I have some crayfish still from the last storm. It is yours, if you take him.” 

 

The masked man was silent for a moment. Then he let go of one end of the tray and gestured violently with his free arm. “Let’s go, human. You’re lucky I’m always hungry.” McCree stepped forward uncertainly, still nonplussed from the sudden emergency-not-emergency. When he reached the edge of the raised platform the trio was standing on and made to step up, the figure raised an arm, gloved palm outward. McCree hadn’t noticed, but he wore long gloves that disappeared into his sleeves of his tunic, and long stockings as well. He didn’t show a single patch of skin. “Stop. Where are your manners? Shoes off, human!” McCree bit his bottom lip and leaned forward to tug at his boots. “And your socks, too, if you have them,” he added as an afterthought. McCree grunted in reply, stripping off his holey socks and stuffing them in his boots. He stood upright and made to step on the platform again. “Can’t bring them with us, I’m afraid.” Now the voice under the mask seemed amused. “Put them over there in the corner.” McCree nodded, trying not to let his chagrin show. He walked over to the far corner of the pit, carefully depositing his boots upright. As an afterthought, he dug his spurs out of his pocket and dropped them in one of the boots. No more noise from them. He turned back to the masked man.

 

“Anythin’ else I should leave behind?” he asked in as even a tone as he could muster.

 

The masked man tilted his head in a strangely familiar way. For a moment, McCree was torn between trying to place the familiar gesture and worrying that the masked man had spotted Peacekeeper among the folds of his serape before he finally replied, “Besides the hat, you mean?” McCree couldn’t keep a scowl off his face. The masked man chuckled softly. “We should have enough customers tonight that you won’t be too loud or noticeable with everything else. The hat’s a bit much.”

 

A snort came from Lin, already back on his platform with his back turned to them. McCree looked from one to the other, unsure how to take that. He did take off his hat, though, running his fingers through his unkempt hair as he did so, and dropped it on top of his boots. The masked man chuckled and turned towards the low door McCree had spotted earlier from the hallway. “Come on, then. Amari lives all the way at the top and all the way at the back. It’ll take a while to get there, especially sneaking around. Just try to keep up. I used to be a ninja, you know.” McCree stepped up onto the platform at last, bare feet slapping softly on the wood. He followed him almost to the door when his guide turned abruptly. “No manners at all! Did you thank Lin? He’s doing you a huge favor, you know.” McCree got the distinct feeling that this person was enjoying bossing him around. He bristled a little, but dutifully turned back.

 

Lin still had his back turned to them, but Bastion stood by the platform looking straight at him. McCree absentmindedly moved to tip his hat, but after a moment of recollection turned the gesture into an awkward wave instead. “Thank ye kindly, both of you.” Lin merely nodded without turning. Bastion let out a small  _ weewoo _ . McCree shifted his weight uncertainly. “Uh, was tha’...”

 

“‘Good luck’, it said.” Lin sounded tired. “From boat of us, I suppose.”

 

“Oh. Mighty kind of ya both.” Satisfied, McCree followed the figure, ducking below the low doorway and nearly stumbling into the drop that awaited him there. For some reason, the doorway’s threshold was 60 centimeters or so off the ground. He landed solidly. The masked man stood off to one side, sliding the door shut with a thud before nodding at him and beckoning him to follow. 

 

They were in another large space, rough plaster on the walls and unfinished wooden pillars holding up the high ceiling. Crates covered with linen tarps were littered about, mostly tucked up against the walls but some scattered through the passage. The air was cool, but just as humid. McCree’s nose wrinkled at the smell of mildew. The masked man walked on, heading for a row of machinery that lay below some crossbeams. There was a small gap between them. The masked man paused for a moment at the gap, glancing through before waving McCree forward as he stepped through. McCree was startled by the giant gears on both sides of him, more so when one activated with a grinding jolt, teeth whirring uncomfortably close. He walked between them as quickly as possibly. He glanced behind him, noting the thick steel cables attached and following them up, up, up...he stopped short. A great shaft rose dozens of meters above him with a half-dozen elevators visible clutching to its sides. It seemed to go all the way up to the top of the building, where a small golden glow was visible.

 

“Hey! Hurry up!” called his guide. McCree snapped his gaze down, seeing him waiting in what seemed to be a simple wooden box with a cable attached. There was zero indication of a safety brake. McCree groaned softly before resolutely walking in. He still stumbled when the masked man waited only long enough for him to cross the threshold before pulling down a lever mounted next to the entrance that sent the so-called elevator lurching upwards. He pressed a hand against a beam to steady himself, only to snatch it back at the barked admonition “You’ll lose a finger--well, looks like more fingers--that way.” He hadn’t noticed that the elevator lacked a back wall, just a single crossbeam.

 

At first there was nothing to see in the alarmingly exposed elevator but paneling and crossbeams flicking past as they rose. After a few seconds though, they moved past entire floors. McCree caught glimpses of hallways and stairways wrapping around a central shaft. Everything had a clean but utilitarian look, although he did note red continued to be the color of choice for anything painted. The elevator lurched to a stop and McCree blinked at the warm, golden panels embossed with flowers that lined this hallway. Despite this, the hallway was dark, and he let his guide step out first, look side-to-side, and motion for him to follow. They turned left, passing by a lone lantern that lit the hallway. The smell of soup broth hung in the air, and his guide glanced to his left at an open doorway with purple curtains bunched up and tied to its lintel. McCree hazarded a glance and balked at the backs of at least three frogs bent over trays of some sort. He slipped past as quietly as he could. 

 

His guide hustled him into a narrow passageway barely a meter wide that suddenly opened up to their right. The walls were still golden, but nobody had wasted any floral designs here. The masked man slowed as they reached the end, poking his head around the corner before drawing back. “Elevator’s not there,” he whispered. “We’ll have to wait for it.”

 

McCree nodded, glancing nervously behind him, thinking about the voices he’d heard in the garden. “That human stench…” He wished he’d been able to do something about that before he’d ventured back into the populated parts of the bathhouse, but it was too late now. 

 

It seemed like an eternity, but soon enough they heard air rushing out the shaft and a gentle sliding sound that announced the elevator’s arrival. His guide stole a quick look around the corner, nodded, and dashed around, McCree on his tail. They jumped into the elevator, McCree pressing his back to the red side wall, and he was pleased to see that it had a back wall, albeit one that was only waist-high for whatever reason. 

 

His guide pulled the lever, McCree steady this time as it jumped upwards. At first there were only panels to look at as they moved up but suddenly light burst forth from the elevator’s half wall. McCree turned his head, seeing closely spaced crossbeams whipping past, but fast enough to blur and allow him to see beyond. He could see yet another cavernous room, obscured by steam and humidity but bathed in bright yellow light. Through the mist he could discern a long row of what he supposed were the baths, but the sight vanished behind more panels before he could get a good look.

 

“Just one more elevator after this,” said the masked man quietly.

 

The elevator slowed, and McCree turned back towards the front. As it slowed to a stop, he felt his guide stiffen as two enormous legs, a tiny square of towel, and an enormous belly suddenly filled the doorway. McCree immediately focused on the enormous pig tattoo that dominated their view. The pig’s snout centered on his outie bellybutton and its head was wreathed in flame. McCree flicked eyes upward and immediately wished he hadn’t. Whoever this huge figure was, he had his face covered with a gas mask with two prominent air filter intakes. He stood head and shoulders above McCree. He had to fight the urge to sink from view behind the masked man, who, to his infinite surprise stepped forward. 

 

“Welcome, sir! How are you enjoying your visit to our baths today?”

 

From behind the mask came a deep, drawn out grunt--or growl. He raised one beefy arm and extended a single, black-nailed finger.

 

Going up? thought McCree numbly.

 

“I’m afraid this elevator does not go any further up, sir. You will have to use another. Please excuse us.” The masked man bowed slightly at the waist, and moved around the figure’s right. McCree had to force himself to follow. He heard one heavy step after another from behind and he glanced behind. They were being followed. 

 

He quickened his pace, drawing up almost level with his guide. “He’s following us,” he hissed into what he hoped was his ear.

 

“Obviously. Don’t look at him. He’s a customer; customers never question staff unless it inconveniences them.” McCree huffed a little. “And stay behind me!” McCree bit his lip, but he let the masked man take the lead again. He glanced around him, surprised to find they were walking across a footbridge of some kind. And down below was the room he had glimpsed earlier from the elevator. Below, maybe fifteen meters below, was a line of large, perfectly circular tubs filled with water and--spirits, he guessed. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. He’d expected to see a long shallow pool where everybody mingled or maybe a series of hot tubs. The hot tubs were closer to the truth from what he could see, but these tubs reminded him of a dog or cat’s water dish more than anything else, each a perfect circle and edges that rose smoothly from the floor before dipping into the bath’s interior. They were arranged in long lines, separated by thin walls topped with bamboo rods as parapets. From where he was, he could see that about half the walls had red colored walls, the other half blue. And as for their occupants…

 

Little yellow blobs, birds with antlers, a gigantic snake-like creature, something with tentacles, and those giant elongated ducks were among the creatures he could see before they reached the other end of the foot bridge and walked along an open hallway that overlooked the main bathing area. McCree threw another glance over his shoulder. The--pig man?--was still following, taking few steps but covering a huge distance with each stride.

 

They passed more golden panels with floral designs, some of which were open to reveal a multitude of creatures. McCree caught a glimpse of some of the floating masks from the ferry. He centered his gaze on the back of his guide’s head. Finally they approached an ornate doorway with familiar triangular buttons beside it. His guide pressed a button, and stood by. McCree stepped behind him, glancing nervously around him. There were creatures of every kind around them; McCree even spotted the tablecloth thing from earlier. But there were no frog-men or slug-women that he could see. The pig man arrived shortly, crowding his guide a little closer to the wall.

 

He heard the elevator approach. The doors slid open.

 

“Here we are, honored guests! Straight ahead, if you please.”

 

The masked man reached behind him, turning as little as possible, and forced McCree down at the shoulder, onto his knees. McCree fought for only an instant before he caught a glimpse of the frog walking alongside three horned figures wearing white bathrobes. He dropped to his knees, just barely managing to slow his descent enough to avoid thudding against the floor. He then felt the masked man push him forward, trying to get him to shuffle forward on his knees. McCree readily obeyed, making for the interior as the pig man stepped forward, too, turning to face the doors and forcing McCree into a corner with his ample girth. He couldn’t see his guide anymore.

 

“Shi!”

 

“Ye-es?” said his guide, from somewhere on the other side of the pig man. McCree tried to huddle as close to the corner as possible, still on his knees, but soon he was being pressed into it by a seeming wall of flesh.

 

“What are you doing? What is that smell?” A few sniffing noises, then a sly “Human. You reek of human!”

 

“That so?” 

 

“Yes-mighty tasty, too.” McCree blanched. Tasty? “What have you been up to? Tell me!”

 

There was silence for a moment, followed by, “Is this what you smell?”

 

A gasp. “Roasted newt! Gimme!” Followed by a sudden clap and then an odd noise, like someone dancing and jumping in place.

 

“No can do. I’ve been saving it for when I need a favor. Oh! I apologize, sir. If you wish to go up, please pull the lever.” 

 

McCree felt a vibration pass through the mass pressed up against him, but otherwise the pig man did nothing. It was now or never. He fought against the thick thigh pressed up against him, reaching forward, grasping at the brass lever that was just out of reach. Finally the pig man stepped a fraction of a centimeter to the side, allowing McCree to grab hold and pull it down. The doors slid closed, and the elevator began to rise, far more gently than the others they had taken thus far. 

 

This elevator was completely enclosed. McCree tried to struggle to his feet since he couldn’t accidentally lose any of his anatomy, but there was simply no space. He gave up and stayed where he was. Well don’ this beat all, he grumbled to himself. The elevator shuddered to a stop, the doors opening to reveal a long hallway, sandals littering the floor. The walls were translucent, and shadowy figures were visible through them. Before McCree could move, the pig man lifted a brawny arm and pulled the lever, sending the elevator upwards again.

 

McCree stared straight ahead at the lever. He felt like someone was watching him, so he hazarded a look upwards. One of the gas mask’s eye pieces was visible, but whether he was looking at him...McCree returned his gaze to the lever.

 

Finally the elevator slowed and stopped once more. The pig man tried the lever, but the elevator refused to move upwards. Slowly he stepped away and out of the elevator, allowing McCree to scramble to his feet and step out as well. This wasn’t a hallway; it was a foyer, richly, almost excessively decorated with minutely detailed floral murals on the sweet smelling wood panelled walls, gleaming marble floors laid out in complex geometric designs, and ornately painted vases etched with stylistic renderings of mythological creatures. 

 

Everything was laid out to lead to two sets of red double doors, lit with three lamps that were the only source of illumination in the vast room, all set into a stone wall with a carved coat of arms set above: two outspread eagle wings, joined by a circle circumscribed by Arabic script. It looked like the entrance to a penthouse--or a castle.

 

The pig man stepped backwards into the elevator. McCree looked up at his face. They stared at each other for a split second before the pig man grunted and leaned--no, bowed forward. McCree couldn’t help but bow back, the motion stiff and unfamiliar, letting his head drop forward. No, that wasn’t right. Apparently the pig man found it amusing, a gravelly, muffled chuckle working its way around the mask, cut off as the elevator doors slid closed. He was gone.

 

McCree turned back towards the penthouse doors, suddenly drymouthed. He had a feeling of being in enemy territory. Now more than ever his hand itched to hold Peacekeeper in his grip. The smell of fragrant wood was almost overpoweringly sweet, enough to turn his stomach. The humid air was now cold and clammy against his skin in stark contrast to the warmth on the floors below. McCree hesitantly took a step, then squared his shoulders and covered the distance with purposeful strides, taking the white marble steps two at a time.

 

He did pause when he reached the doors, just to take a steadying breath. The doors had finely molded brass handles, but at odds with their elegance was an odd doorknocker shaped like a thin face, set low on the door, almost in the dead center. It had a strong straight nose and a small frowning mouth, and one large left eye pointing to the far right, like it was cross-eyed. The right one was covered with a large eyepatch. Under the left eye was a strange symbol, a short line straight down with two semicircles radiating from its middle, one longer than the other. McCree raised an eyebrow at it.

 

“Don’t like what you see,  _ raei albaqar _ ?”

 

McCree felt a jolt run through him as the doorknocker  _ spoke _ , eye swiveling to focus on his own, mouth moving realistically but jaw jerking up and down mechanically. 

 

“Hum. Everyone down there really is incompetent. I could spot you a day’s travel away with one eye, and they couldn’t find you with two in their foolish heads.” The voice was a low contralto, just a hint from being musical. It pronounced  _ th _ softly, almost audibly, but the  _ s _ ,  _ d,  _ and  _ t  _ were always sharp and biting.

 

The door unlocked with a click, and the double doors swung inwards with a muffled creak. McCree’s eyes narrowed at the darkness within, but it was quickly broken by light flooding from a massive chandelier hanging above, revealing another foyer just as if not more opulently decorated as the one at his back. Another set of double doors awaited him, but before he could move, they, too, opened, revealing a room that soon flooded with light, revealing yet another set of doors, which repeated the pattern once more, their barely audible creaking accentuating their distance. Three foyers total. McCree could barely keep from scratching his head. Just how big was this place? 

 

“And? Are you coming or not?” asked the doorknocker, despite it having swung out of view. McCree set his lips in a straight line, straightened to his full height, and stepped confidently forward.

 

Or he took a confident half-step forward, before he felt something snag on his trailing foot and throw it out from under him. With a yelp he crashed to the floor, serape flipping over his head. He snatched it off and scrambled wildly on the floor, trying to see what had grabbed him from behind. There was nothing, only a breathy laugh.

 

“Ay, how klumsy you are! Here, my dear, let me give you a hand.” 

 

A low sound, a thrum, sounded in McCree’s ears, and to his horror he felt something hook just behind his solar plexus and none too gently hoist him to his feet. It didn’t stop there, though; with another pang of terror he felt his feet leave the ground, and he was yanked forward, chest puffed forward, his hands clutched just short of tearing at his body armor trying to dislodge what felt like a grappling hook jammed under his ribcage. He was on the edge of panic, and he was so focused on digging whatever it was out of his body that he hardly noticed his surroundings as he glided at great speed half a meter off the ground, passing through doorways with the doors slamming shut behind him with heavy bangs and the sound of locks shooting home. He paid no attention to where he was going until with a sharp jerk that forced a short cry from him wrenched him into turning down a long hallway. His head snapped up, and he was able to briefly register the lengthy passage rushing past him with wind whistling in his ears. His eyes widened as the hall terminated in a door, and as he careened headlong towards it he thrust his metallic hand in front of him to try to stop himself from smashing against it.

 

It flew open a split-second before he crunched against it. At the same instant, the invisible hook in his chest vanished, dropping him like a stone as he pitched forward. He hit the ground on his chest with another strangled cry, somersaulting once with limbs flailing before his training kicked in and he tucked everything in, trying to avoid breaking or spraining anything. He rolled to a stop, soft silken carpeting poking into his cheek as he lay on his side, breathing heavily, composure gone. The breath had almost been knocked out of him, and he felt bruising already spreading across his chest, along with a half-dozen aches and pains that announced hard bumps taken by his limbs and torso and burning sensations where the exposed skin on his face and forearm had rubbed forcefully against the carpet. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he felt Peacekeeper shift, the clip undone or snapped in the fall. He could only pray his serape was still covering her.

 

Suddenly high-pitched giggling split the air. McCree rolled over to face the sound, keeping his back hidden away. Like a nightmare turned real, he saw three heads, no bodies, no necks, just  _ heads _ , bouncing and tumbling over the floor towards him. How they moved he had no idea, but move they did, jumping almost two meters into the air, mouths lolling open, sharp white teeth visible as they cackled and giggled. All three looked exactly the same, with sharp angular features, long pointy noses, jutting chins, beady yellow eyes topped with bushy eyebrows. Even their hair was identical, a mass of blonde spikes swept back from their faces but otherwise pointing every which way,  and from the ends came trails of smoke with the acrid smell of burned hair.

 

They surrounded him as he jumped to his feet, hands thrust in front to try to ward them off, backing up until he felt warmth at his back. Glancing back he saw he about to back into an open fireplace. He stopped short, and turned back to face the heads as they continued to cackle, jumping over his head, feinting forward towards his feet before retreating and rolling around to spook him from another angle. McCree swallowed, trying to contain himself from any more undignified yelps.

 

“So noisy. Keep it down.”

 

The soft admonition was enough to completely silence the heads. They settled down, making low hops or simply rolling away from McCree towards the other side of the room. There, they gathered to one side of a low, elegantly carved desk made of dark hardwood. On it were scattered a few small boxes, a couple of little sacks, and some short stacks of books and paper, lit by a simple desk lamp sitting at one end, with another lamp shining behind on a small cabinet. In their light sat a woman, hunched over the desk, head down, pen in hand.

 

She wore a blue outfit that struck McCree as a mix between a hoodie and a hijab. It fit snugly around most of her face, but it allowed a thick lock of silvery hair to sweep over most of the black eyepatch covering her right eye. The long straight nose reminded him sharply of the doorknocker that had presaged his entry into this nightmare scenario. He sucked in a sharp breath of air between his teeth as his chest burned. Otherwise, the room was silent but for the crackling flames from the fireplace behind him.

 

The woman seemed to take no more notice of him. She simply kept writing. McCree watched her, eyes narrowed, lips slightly parted as he tried to calm his breathing, feeling Peacekeeper settle somewhere around the small of his back. She’d be hard to get to now. His hand ached for her reassuring presence. He wanted nothing more than to have a weapon pointed at this woman, at who could only be Amari, ready for the next thing she may try to do.

 

The silence stretched on. McCree felt his limbs tighten, the tension building with every second that passed. Still the woman did nothing. McCree swallowed, then, as he’d done at the door, stood upright and straightened his shoulders. He would be damned before he let nerves overpower him here.

 

“Amari, is it? I need a job, and I hear you can give me one.” 

 

The woman’s pen paused. She slowly lifted her gaze to meet his. He only had a moment to take in the puffy cheeks that seemed her face’s sole concession to age and the strange tattoo under her left eye, the same as on the doorknocker, before she raised her left hand and, thumb and fingers pinched together, moved it in a precise, straight line.

 

McCree felt his lips tingle and move of their own accord, pressing together. Then something burned in their flesh, and he tried to give a shout, but to his horror, his lips wouldn’t come apart. His hands leapt to his mouth, and with a jolt he realized his flesh hand couldn’t feel any divide between his lips, none at all, as if they were fused together. He rubbed and pulled at them, wincing in pain as they refused to come apart. He felt a dizzying wave of panic rise within him.

 

“Behave, child.” 

 

The soft words made him freeze, his hands still at his mouth. The woman had returned to her writing, pen softly scratching against the paper. 

 

“Such manners,” she continued, not looking up. “Why should I hire a disrespectful oaf like yourself? What are you thinking? This is no place for humans, after all.” Finishing her writing with a flourish, she dropped the pen to one side before casually putting the small sacks on the desk into a gilded box sitting at her elbow and shutting the lid. “This is an elite establishment. Millions of spirits every year come to purge themselves of toil and care. Do you think they could accomplish that with some smelly ruffian running around, mouthing off?” She leaned back in her chair, lifting her long legs, seemingly wrapped around and around with thick cloth, like bandages, and resting them on the desk, crossed at the ankles. She retrieved a cigarette from her long sleeve, put it loosely in her mouth, and softly snapped her fingers. A small flame leapt to life, floating above her forefinger, and she lazily lit the cigarette, drawing a deep breath, letting out a cloud through her nostrils. McCree thought of his own cigarillos for a moment, but such a thought was swiftly smothered by what she revealed with her poise, her tone, her casual disregard. Everything about her insinuated a barely restrained cruelty, something McCree had seen only from high-level crime bosses or terrorist leadership. She held his life in her hand, she knew that he knew it, and she knew that he knew she was enjoying every second of it.

 

“But I suppose that is to be expected.” She blinked slowly, focusing on McCree again. “What can I expect from an underling such as yourself when his commander acts so impetuously! Gobbling down our guests’ food at first sight. Like a pig, wouldn’t you say?” The smoothness of her voice vanished at these words, becoming harsh, guttural. McCree hardly dared to breath. He hadn’t felt this kind of fear for a long time, decades. His overworked mind thought feebly of his Deadlock initiation, the trembling that had almost spoiled his aim, a jolt each time a bullet hit its mark, the rival gang members falling, dead before they hit the ground. All nothing compared to this, a single enemy, sitting down with her feet on a desk, unarmed, yet able to melt his flesh together with a gesture, physically throw him around like a doll, and him with his only protection pressing into his skin yet completely out of reach. 

 

She locked her eye on his own. A smile spread across her face, smug yet completely humorless. “You are not used to this, are you,  _ raei albaqar _ ? You have never been so helpless, so alone.” McCree’s heart spasmed in his chest at the truth of her words. “Though I doubt you made it this far completely alone. Some kind person must have shown you the way, no? Who was it, child? Tell me.” She raised her hand again, made another precise movement. McCree felt his lips burn and spring apart under the strain his unmoved hands had placed upon them. In the same desperate instant, as he worked to find an answer, his brain hit on one last chance, spoken in a comfortingly low, powerful voice.

 

_ If you ask for work, she must give it to you. Then, she will be honorbound to protect you. _

 

Now or never. He snapped his arms to his sides, fists clenched.

 

“Let me work here!” he blurted. “Please!” as an afterthought.

 

The humorless smile melted away in an instant, replaced with an openmouthed scowl. “Know your place and be silent!” she spat, sweeping her legs off the desk and pounding a blue-gloved fist on its surface.

 

McCree knew there nothing more to do but keep going. “I wanna work here! Please give me a job!” 

 

“Silence!” The word was a long, drawn out scream. The floor trembled, and pages began swirling off the desk as if in a whirlwind, the air motionless. Suddenly she leapt forward, impossibly high and far, descending like a bolt of lightning, striking the ground mere centimeters from McCree. She was only slightly shorter than him, but her stature took away nothing from the fire blazing in her eye, lips drawn tight over her pearly teeth in a snarl. She stuck a finger into his neck, a long sharp nail pressing against his jugular. He could feel his wild pulse beat against it, threatening to open itself with just a tad more pressure. Electricity seemed to hum in the air around them, and he felt his hair stand on end. It took all his willpower not to back away, or, perhaps, he was simply frozen in place and couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to.

 

She leaned into his face, bellowing at full volume, spittle flying into his face. “Why should I take you on? Nothing but a worthless mangy  _ kalb barri _ , a waste of space and time!” She stalked around his right side as she spoke, dragging her nail across his throat as she went, leaving a burning line whose metaphor was not lost on McCree. He stood as he was, trembling, eyes focused straight ahead on nothing, willing his legs to remain standing. “Or--perhaps--” her voice lowered slightly in volume, but increased tenfold in malice. Now behind him, she wrapped all four fingers around his neck, grasping the right half of it. “--I could give you what you seek. I could give you work. The nastiest, most loathsome job I have, for you to work the rest of your miserable life, until you finally gasp out your last breath?” Her fingers dug into the space between his trachea and his jugular. McCree blanched, on the edge of breaking and making a run for it.

 

A tremor ran through the room, accompanied by a dull boom. He would have attributed it to her, but he felt her fingers freeze on his throat. Another tremor and boom. Then another, increasing in amplitude and frequency. The furnishings trembled, and the three heads suddenly reappeared from wherever they had been, still cackling, but hysterically now, fearfully. Then with a powerful roar, something smashed against a door in the far corner of the room to McCree’s right, unnoticed until now. The blow was powerful enough to knock him off-balance, and Amari’s fingers slid free from his throat. Bookcases around the room fell forward, dumping their contents onto the floor with a flurry of thuds and rustling paper. The lamps swayed and fell, throwing splashes of light crazily around the room. The door itself split almost in two and sagged inwards.

 

McCree couldn’t believe his eyes as a three-barreled cannon clad in--in-- _ pink armor _ \--disappeared from view, withdrawn through a great splintery hole in the door. The door jumped and vibrated against a fresh blow. It refused to yield entirely, but it would certainly fail soon. 

 

Amari rushed towards the door, and she was, to McCree’s utter astonishment,  _ tittering _ as she went. “Oh my dear, my dear, did I wake you? Did I? Oh, my dear,  _ ya qamar _ , I’m sorry! I’m coming,  _ ya qamar _ , give me a moment!” She had reached the door and was calling through the hole. She turned to McCree, face scowling. “What are you still here for? Go!” 

 

McCree wasted no time. “Let me work here! Please!” He spoke a lot louder than he meant, his self-control dwindling.

 

“Keep your voice down, imbecile!” Switching tones, turning to the door again. “Such a good girl! I’ll be there soon!”

 

“Please! I need to work here!” McCree hollered at the top of the lungs, impulsively taking a chance, despite everything.

 

Amari’s scowl deepened, then she set her mouth with resignation. “Fine. Fine! Just be silent and you shall have it!” Then she turned, and with impressive strength and temerity, she ripped the half-destroyed door open and rushed through, disappearing from sight.

 

There were a few more booms, a few more tremors, but silence descended. McCree stood still as a statue, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The room was a veritable disaster, objects laying all across the floor in every possible orientation but upright, the two overturned lamps throwing distorted, faceted circles across the walls and ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the three blonde heads huddled together, letting out a hushed giggle every so often, barely audible over the still crackling flames from the fireplace.

 

A rattling noise leapt out from somewhere and McCree strained his eyes trying to locate the source. From somewhere on the other side of the cluttered desk, a fine pen and a sheet of paper came gently floating through the air, the pen bobbing gently. They slowly approached McCree, who watched dumbly as they came to rest in midair at arm’s reach in front of him. Nothing happened for a pair of seconds, then the pen bobbed in the air, insistently it seemed. McCree hesitantly reached out and grabbed it and the paper, too, for good measure. He scanned the paper’s contents. The script was absolutely tiny. The fireplace behind him threw his own shadow over the paper, and his tired eyes couldn’t even make out if it was written with letters or characters. At the bottom was a thin line. 

 

“It is a standard contract. Sign at the bottom, and I’ll put you to work.” Amari had reappeared without a single sound to announce her presence. She looked ruffled. Her hood was scrunched up over one side of her head, revealing more silver hair and allowing some to join the first lock of hair falling over her face. She stood by the desk, pulling on a corded rope that hung from the ceiling. Bells softly chimed in the distance. Amari then waved and pointed her hands at and around the mess on the floor. The items trembled, then gracefully rose into the air, moving in graceful arcs to and fro and resuming their places on the desk and bookshelves. It was something straight out of  _ Mary Poppins _ , and McCree could barely restrain a hysterical giggle at the sight. 

 

He cleared his throat instead, and looked for somewhere to rest his paper. He didn’t dare get any closer to Amari, so at last he dropped to his knees and signed using the fireplace marble foundation as a hard surface. He focused more intently than was really warranted on the task, using it as a momentary respite from the insanity he had just endured. As the pen moved across the paper, McCree tried to lose himself in the memory of third grade, when the first and ultimately only schoolteacher that had bothered to take a second look at him had noticed his precise hand coordination and had felt that learning cursive would be a good way to develop it. For whatever reason. 

 

It was a strange thing to be reminiscing at such a moment, but McCree was finding his situation close to untenable. Any escape was welcome.

 

“Are you done, boy?” The sharp question jarred him back to the present.

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered.

 

“Finally, some manners,” said Amari dryly. McCree barely started when the pen and paper jerked out of his grasp. He turned on his knees and stood, watching the pen drop onto the desk and the paper deposit itself in Amari’s hand. In the time it had taken him to sign, she had recomposed the entire room, including her own appearance. Everything looked as it had before. She looked the contract over, sniffing when she reached the bottom. “Jesse McCree.” 

 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

 

“A little extravagant, don’t you think?” He had no idea how to reply, but she didn’t seem to expect him to. Instead, she waved her hand over the paper, and McCree felt his jaw drop as letters floated up towards it, his elegant script twisting and turning, disappearing when they were edge-on and reappearing as they rotated back into view. Amari clenched her fist, wrapping up the floating letters within. She looked him in the eye, with a smile that could only be called predatory. “From now on, you will be Mac, I think,” she announced, smile widening. “It should be easy for you to remember, no?” 

 

McCree frowned. What the hell was this about?

 

“Answer me,” Amari said softly. “Answer to your name, Mac. Now!”

 

McCree was tired and he wanted nothing more than to get away from her, forever if possible. “Yes, ma’am. Mac it is.” 

 

She gave him a look of immense satisfaction.

 

The door through which McCree had been thrown earlier softly clicked open. “Yes, madam?” murmured a familiar voice. McCree turned with surprise. Han stood at the doorway, hands at his sides, bowed slightly at the waist, lock of black hair falling away from his face. He glanced at Han’s lock, to Amari’s similar hairstyle, and back again. Something didn’t sit right there.

 

“This human has joined my staff, Han. Take him to his new supervisor.” 

 

“At once, madam.” Han turned to McCree, face impassive, dark eyes cool and dispassionate. “Your name?” 

 

McCree’s mouth had gone dry, feeling like he had missed something. He forced himself to speak. “Uh Mc-” For a moment, he felt tongue-tied. After all this, he was forgetting his own name. After a split second it came to him. “Mac. Uh, sir.” Han nodded and motioned for him to follow, bowing to Amari before turning to the door. Mac glanced at Amari, who was looking at him with that same look of satisfaction. Taking Han’s cue, he bowed at the waist, not letting his head drop this time. Amari clicked her tongue.

 

“You are learning. How surprising.” Mac wisely did not answer. He simply followed Han out of the room and down the long hallway behind.

 

He felt his shoulders slowly unknitting the further they got from that accursed room. He felt exhaustion wash over him, almost trudging his bare feet across the soft silky carpet as they went, Han walking ahead, not once glancing at his charge. 

 

It took a long time, it seemed to Mac, to get all the way to the other end of the hall. Once they did, Han opened a small side door on the right side, revealing a far more utilitarian hallway that stretched even further, the floor plain white linoleum, the walls white plaster broken by simple wood frames. Mac barely avoided sighing out loud. They didn’t go far, though, before they reached what was unmistakably an elevator. Han stopped and finally turned to Mac.

 

“Your weapons.” 

 

Mac stared at him. “Wha’?”

 

“Your weapons. Staff are not allowed to possess weapons. You will give them to me.” 

 

“Now wai’ a goddamned second here, Han-” 

 

“ _ Master _ Han,” he said, coldly. Mac felt the blood drain from his face. “Most of your fellow workers call me Han-sama. You will do the same or call me Master Han. Your weapons. Now.” 

 

“And if I don’?” Mac growled, threateningly.

 

He was crumpled on the floor before he knew what happened. Han had moved quicker than a snake, lifting Mac and throwing him over his shoulder in one fluid move, dumping Mac onto his right side, rattling his ribcage, the air knocked out of him. He stirred feebly, trying to breath. Han composedly and efficiently stripped the ammunition and holster belts off of him, dragging them over his left arm and none-too-gently out from under his head. Mac could only watch as he slid open what could only be the entrance to a garbage chute and unceremoniously dumped everything in, Peacekeeper rattling for a moment before an abrupt silence. To Mac, it was as good as a death rattle. Han slid the chute entrance closed.

 

His lungs slowly drew in air. He blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears, half for the ache in his chest, half for faithful Peacekeeper, constant companion since he was fifteen. If there was a chance to save her, he would have jumped up and fought tooth and nail as soon as he got his breath back. Now, it was too late. She was gone. He’d have rather thrown his arm down the chute, left or right.

 

Han stood over him, watching with the same emotionless expression, although his eyes were even colder than before. Mac slowly turned over, got to his knees, still doubled over. He looked up at Han. “You--” he ground out, a hiss of hatred.

 

Han was quick, no ifs, ands, or buts. Mac didn’t see the hand coming until it was done slapping him, almost knocking him over. Mac simply turned back, angry red flushing over his cheek, eyes burning.

 

But somewhere in his soul, he knew he was done. He couldn’t take on this man, not now, not as he was, chewed up and spit out by this godawful perditious day. 

 

_ Retírate para volver más fuerte mañana. No pelees contra lo imposible. Siempre habrá la venganza, si sigues vivo. ¿Me oyes? ¿Vaquero? _

 

Te oigo, he thought.

 

He stood, slowly. Nothing but two decades of Blackwatch could overpower the Deadlock that was still at his core, straining to lash out, to punish, to hurt, to exact a drawn out and final revenge when he was on his last dregs of strength. 

 

But he rose, and he readjusted his clothing, and he bowed, low, eyes to the floor.

 

Han turned away and touched the button, calling the elevator. It arrived momentarily, and he waved Mac inside. Mac stepped in, expression as impassive as Han’s, turning to face the entrance, looking anywhere but at Han. Mac kept his posture as relaxed as possible, but his mind was already springing into action, back in Blackwatch mode.

 

There were several possibilities here, several ways to interpret the power play that had just occurred. But as he stood there, stomach dropping as the elevator began to descend, lightheaded from exertion and lack of food, he couldn’t help but feel, as he glanced at the imperious figure standing at the lever in front of him, that any pretension of help his erstwhile ally had offered was merely that, a pretension. And he couldn’t help but feel, as the elevator slowed and the deceleration weighed on his shoulders, as the doors opened and Han turned to beckon him to follow, as they were momentarily eye-to-eye, cold disinterest against cold fury, that he’d been had. That he had been led like a lamb to slaughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torbjörn LINdholm is a magitek engineer in this story. I feel that the first thing he would do with the boilers would be much more automation and efficiency. The bathhouse is perpetually a few decades behind the times, so I didn’t make the boilers run on NUCLEAR POWER or anything, but I think Torbjörn would definitely switch it from coal-fired to natural gas at the very least. I was sad to lose the sootballs, though; hopefully the constructs are just as cute in your imagination as they are in mine.
> 
> Bastion’s appearance is based on its Woodbot skin. I was stoked when I saw it; it looks almost exactly what a Ghibli!Bastion would, if it wasn’t like the robots from Castle in the Sky, of course. 
> 
> Genji's name is Shi because that's what Google Translate changes it to when I put Hikaru Genji (光源氏) into Google Translate and separated the characters. Amari's Arabic is what I could cobble together from Wikipedia and Google Translate. If it's incorrect, inappropriate, or badly worded, please let me know, I'd be in your debt!
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Retírate para volver más fuerte mañana. No pelees contra lo imposible. Siempre habrá la venganza, si sigues vivo. ¿Me oyes? ¿Vaquero?  
> Retreat so you can come back stronger tomorrow. Don’t fight the impossible. You will have vengeance, if you live. You hear me, cowboy?
> 
> Te oigo.  
> I hear you.


	4. Han

The elevator came to a slow stop. Han stepped out and immediately walked off. Mac quietly followed, trying to school his expression into something approaching neutrality while glaring at Han’s ponytail as it swished back and forth. He was too focused to take in his surroundings until they came to a stairway and Mac became aware of the scent of mud and salt. Mac tore his eyes from Han to briefly glance around them. They had been walking along a utilitarian hallway with no painted surfaces, only dark brown wood and dingy off-white panels. A handrail protected them from falling into a short shaft a mere three stories tall, tiny and cramped compared to most of the other spaces he had passed through that night. A laundry line was strung across it, offering a few muted colors to counteract the drab decor. Several rooms and hallways opened into the shaft, and Mac could see a couple dozen people--frogs and slugs, he reminded himself-- sitting or standing at the handrails in groups of two and three, talking amongst themselves, their murmurs echoing slightly. Mac couldn’t help but breathe in sharply. He’d spent most of the night trying to avoid being seen by them, and now here was a whole crowd.

 

Han slowly but confidently began descending the oddly placed stairway. It stretched out in front of them in a straight line, a single flight bypassing all three floors to the bottom of the shaft. A woman--a slug--glanced at Han with an inquisitive glance before Mac’s red serape seemed to grab her attention. She gasped, loudly, a long drawn out sound that echoed up and down, seemingly drawing every single eye. More gasps, and quiet but frantic muttering sprang from nearly every single group, a few figures running out of sight after a few seconds of gawking. Mac only took in their various expressions of shock, reluctant curiosity, fear, and outright disgust for a moment before he latched his eyes back on Han’s ponytail again, trying not to misstep. He did try to draw his shoulders back and walk as naturally as possible, despite the exhaustion in his limbs and the sickly feeling beginning to settle in his stomach.

 

They reached the square bottom of the shaft. There was not much there besides a few crates stacked in three corners and an open passage that led from the final empty corner to their left. Han led the way, stepping into the dimly lit passage and out of view of their onlookers. Mac could immediately hear the volume rise in their conversations, some even shouting as soft thuds from hallways that must have been directly above his head announced that many of them were rushing in the same direction they were going.

 

They passed several closed doorways before approaching a large entrance with no door or curtains. Soft light spilled out, and so, too, did a clamor of hushed voices. As they came closer, Mac could make out a conversation between two especially loud or piercing voices.

 

“The human! Han-sama is bringing him here!”

 

“Impossible! He would have thrown it from a window as soon as he found it! Amari would never-”

 

Han reached the entryway and strode through purposefully. Mac couldn’t see his face, but whatever look he had on his face, or perhaps his reputation alone, silenced the room but for the sound of bare feet shuffling against the wooden planking. Mac had only a split second to prepare himself before following Han, trying to match his purposeful stride if nothing else.

 

The room was crowded, full of piercing looks from unfriendly eyes. There were two more large entryways on his left and right, crowded mostly with slugs dressed in bright, colorful, flowing robes tied with equally colorful ribbons at their waists.  Mac spared a quick scrutinizing glance at their faces. He had yet to see any of them up close. There was a wide variety of shapes, from heart-shaped to oval, to long and stretched, but all soft, not a single one showing any angular or sharp features. They were much taller than the average frog, head and shoulders above them. There was little to differentiate them from a human woman except that the skin was a little too translucent and their flesh fell away from their bodies slightly wrong, like it wasn’t attached right to tendons or bones. Mac doubted he would have noticed, though, if he hadn’t know before hand.

 

Ahead of him, again on his left and right, two staircases led upwards, and they, too, were crowded, this time with frogs, all dressed much more similarly and mundanely than the slugs. The only differences in color among them were the ribbons around their waists, muted colors sometimes clashing with the off-white tunics and capri-like shorts. Nearly all of them wore those strange pointed caps with the points crooked, mostly back but with a few sagging forward or to the side.

 

Nearly everyone was staring straight at Mac, expressions a similar array as the ones he was greeted with in the shaft. Some of the slugs even held their sleeves to their noses. Mac was almost, but not quite beyond caring how he smelled, so the gesture was not lost on him.

 

Directly ahead, Han stopped three paces from a small desk or pulpit. At it sat an enormous frog, the biggest Mac had yet seen. He alone seemed to break the general rule of the frogs being a mere meter-and-a-half tall, easily a meter or two taller. He towered over everyone, Han and Mac included. He alone among the frogs wore a different color tunic and hat, mustard yellow and green clashing against each other and the dreary grey walls around them. He also seemed to have the most facial hair among the frogs, a thick white beard masking his voluminous cheeks and chin. He regarded Mac momentarily with his bulging, dark eyes before turning to Han. He opened his wide mouth and boomed, “Surely not? Has our dear Amari really sent a human into our midst? I dare not think it true!” Mac tried not to shuffle his feet uncomfortably at the sheer volume, but he did note that, despite the frog’s words, he seemed almost jovial, as if he were putting on a show.

 

“He has signed his contract,” replied Han evenly, tone flat. That prompted a burst of conversation from everyone around them, mostly gasps and epithets.

 

“What, and he’s working _with_ us? Does that mean he’s going to _sleep_ with us?” Mac’s eyes searched questioningly for that voice, piping up over everyone else. It sounded like the green frog he had encountered at the bridge, but if so, he was lost among the crowd gathered around him. He had been very short, even for a frog.

 

Giggles and snickers seemed to reply to the rather aghast tone, with a slug calling out with an air of supreme satisfaction, “Well, finally there’ll be someone who smells worse than you lot! I’m happy he’ll be a floor above us; he stinks to high heaven!”

 

Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd, the frogs on the staircases on either side shooting rather venomous looks at Mac. He bit his bottom lip.

 

“He will not stink after three days of eating our food.” Han’s voice cut through the low voices effortlessly, earning a rather sudden silence. He looked side-to-side and at the staircases as he spoke, eyes flashing when they momentarily came into Mac’s view. “He has that long to measure up. If he is useless, you may do as you wish with him.”

 

Mac tried to swallow inaudibly at those words, and he couldn’t prevent his nervous glances at the looks he received, most hostile, others grim, and a few disturbingly pleased, one frog with rather pink and thin lips actually licking them with a thick grey tongue when Mac made brief eye contact. He barely repressed a shudder, returning his gaze straight ahead and accidentally locking eyes with the enormous giant frog at his desk. He was regarding him with a rather lazy, impersonal look, one eye slightly wider in what may have been a browless raised eyebrow.

 

“Those are Amari’s orders. Now, back to work!” Han barked. Almost as one, the crowd turned heel towards the various exits and began filing out, mutters and low voices filling the room, along with the occasional glare shot at Mac.

 

Mac relaxed, minutely, now that most of the eyes were no longer turned on him. He jumped a little when Han continued, still barking haughtily, “Where is Shi?”

 

“Ah, no. You’re not planning on dumping him on me, are you?” With a look of surprise, and a little relief, Mac saw Shi descending the staircase on his left, arms crossed, helmet tilted, posture disdainful.

 

“Ahhhh, yes!” bellowed the giant frog, yellow shirt flapping with each word, “Little Shi here will be perfect! He has been a stone around my neck for some time; he has been asking for one of his own for some time, haha!”

 

“I _asked_ for an _assistant_ , not some human vagabond who wandered in and somehow accidentally got hired,” sniffed Shi as he reached the bottom of the steps, a grimace apparent despite the mask, earning a loud guffaw and a wide grin from the giant.

 

Han turned to Mac, expression cool and stonelike. “Go, Mac.” The words were dismissive, haughty.

 

Mac couldn’t avoid the spasm of anger that flashed across his face for an instant. He regained control and bowed, as properly as he could. “Yes, Master Han.” He congratulated himself for not hissing the words before he turned to Shi and walked to his side, not sparing another look at Han.

 

Shi, for his part, seemed to size up Mac before sighing, letting his arms drop to his sides. “Fine. But you’re all gonna pay for this!”

 

More booming laughter from the giant. “Off you go! Good night!” A clear dismissal, even if it was much warmer than Han’s.

 

Shi sighed again and turned to step back up the staircase, and not the same one the liplicker frog had ascended, to Mac’s immense relief. The climb was short, going up a single story into another dingy, plain hallway. Mac wondered briefly where, exactly, they were. He had never been able to keep track of where he was in the labyrinthine building throughout the entire long evening, and as Shi led him through even more unlit hallways and passages, he felt entirely lost, in more ways than one. His exhaustion was only increasing, the sickly feeling turning swiftly into nausea now that the distraction of his introduction to his coworkers had passed.

 

Shi seemed to sense this, or at least knew how easy it was to lose one’s way, as he led Mac through two or three turns before they came to another shaft, with open hallways wrapped around and flights of stairs crisscrossing it, leading up and down and out of sight. Shi turned to him. “You’ll want to pay attention to where we are from here on out. This is one of the main stairways for the staff. We’ll be using it to get to the staging area every morning where we’ll get our assignments. All the way up is the bathhouse. All the way down are the storage areas and boiler room. Our dormitory is through here,” he continued, leading him down yet another unremarkable hallway. Luckily for Mac’s increasingly foggy mind, it was a simple right-turn, then a left-turn before they entered a hallway with one side made of floor-to-ceiling sliding windows. They allowed moonlight to pour in, painting silver patches over the plain floor, and, more importantly, offered Mac an opportunity to regain his bearings. He padded to his right, still following Shi as he glanced up and down. The floodplain stretched flat and grey to a flat horizon, broken only by dark blue pools of water here and there. Above he could see a large balcony blocking his line of sight, but below he quickly focused on the train tracks he had seen earlier. They forged ahead, quickly becoming a thin black line that disappeared in the darkness before it had quite reached the horizon. He followed it back and saw it disappear to his left. They must be on the backside of the building, he deduced. As he looked back in the direction they were walking, he could see the hallway turned left, but the windows didn’t end, instead following the hallway. They were on the very corner of the building then, and he might be able to see the outer stairway or the suspended bridge outside the boiler room entrance once they reached the corner. The Blackwatch in him relaxed slightly at this slight reorientation, not that it did anything for his tiredness or nausea.

 

Before they reached the corner though, Shi, raised a hand, signalling a stop. Mac paused in mid-step, trying to listen intently, as Shi seemed to be doing. A couple seconds passed, then Shi whipped around, stepping to Mac quickly and clapping a hand on his shoulder.

 

“You made it!” Mac blinked and almost stepped back at the suddenly warm tone and excitement evident in Shi’s voice. The mask was impassive as ever, but underneath he could almost imagine a grin. “I was worried! A big, loud oaf like you, I was afraid someone would manage to trip you up right at the finish line!” Now he stepped to Mac’s side, his  long and strangely hard and cold arm now draped over Mac’s shoulders, drawing the taller man forward in an almost breathtakingly familiar way. “Don’t worry, the worst is behind you. Now that your contract’s signed, you may never have to see Amari again, as long as you keep your wits about you. You just stick with me and everything will work out fine!”

 

Mac couldn’t process this sudden show of camaraderie. His stomach clenched uncomfortably, and his throat tightened. He let his head droop forward and his lips quivered. He felt like he was going to be sick.

 

Shi paused, noting his silence. “Hey, you all right?”

 

Mac shook himself, trying to push the queasiness down. He turned to Shi and focused on the thin green fabric ellipse that seemed to denote his eyes, giving a weak smile. “Sorry, I’m jus’ feelin’ like the bull threw me off for the fifth time. Long day, y’know?”

 

Shi threw his head back and laughed, the sound shocking Mac and lifting his spirits a little. It seemed to be first unrestrained, pure sound he’d heard in an eternity, and he soaked it in, managing a few dry chuckles of his own. Shi patted his shoulder with the arm still resting across Mac’s broad shoulders. “Long day, indeed, cowboy! A minute with Amari seems like a month, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, I’m serious when I say that’s probably the last you’ll hear from her in a good, long while. She hardly ever comes down into the main part of the bathhouse. She just sits up there looking down her nose at us and counting all the coin our hard labor earns her.” Mac could feel a twinge of relief work its way through his chest, making him breathe a little easier, despite the implications of how long Shi apparently expected him to be there. Right now, avoiding Amari was high up on his priorities list, concurrent with avoiding Han and getting the hell out of there as soon as he could.

 

He frowned, thinking of Han. Turning his head to look at Shi’s profile, he asked hesitantly, “What about H-uh, Master Han? Will he be around much?”

 

“Oh, Half-Pint?” Mac’s eyebrows raised at the irreverent title. Shi’s tone was light and friendly at first, but as he went on, Mac thought he detected an edge creeping into his voice. “No, he spends most of his time doing Amari’s bidding, doing a lot of her dirty work when she doesn’t feel like doing it herself. He’ll bring down Orders from On High every so often, but for the most part he’s not around, either.” Mac’s reaction to this was far more nuanced. In a way, it felt like another nail in the coffin. If he’d known Han was so closely associated with Amari--well. It was looking less and less like Han had truly meant to help him, and Mac was glad to hear he wouldn’t have to look into the cold eyes looking out from that admittedly handsome face. Mac couldn’t help but rub his face with his hand, despite it being the metal one since his flesh arm was trapped between him and Shi.

 

There was still the matter of Han telling him to run at first, though. That was the only indication of Han’s benevolence at this point. He had told him to run, to get across the river before sunset, and then maybe he wouldn’t have gotten stuck here. As it turned out, it would have meant abandoning Morrison, but Han didn’t seem to have known about Morrison, yet. Had he known? Impossible to tell.

 

Mac’s forehead wrinkled as he tried to work his way through his thoughts, and his nausea increased. He realized Shi was still speaking and tried to refocus on his words.

 

“-food for goldfish, but at least there’s plenty of rice. That will keep you going more than anything, and I can usually get some better stuff from the kitchens. Ninja, you know?” he ended, tapping the side of his helmet smugly.

 

Mac nodded, not really understanding at all what he’d said. By this time they’d turned the corner, and an open sliding door let light splash across the dark hallway. Shi turned Mac into it even as he tried to glance out the window, managing to see dark cliff faces before he stumbled across something soft. He looked down at what he immediately recognized as a futon, blankets askew with a small pillow at one end. Raising his head, he somberly surveyed the largish room, noting that the walls were literally paper thin where they lined the hallway they had left and were simply a double layer of closets with sliding doors where they didn’t. A couple of low-hanging lamps provided a mediocre amount of light. There were four or five low wooden tables, most of them stacked on top of each other but with one set out with a couple of mugs on top. The floor was covered in slightly squishy mats woven with worn strips of plain, yellowish cloth, and there were a couple more futons laid across the floor, occupied by large rounded shapes under the blankets. Shi took his arm off Mac’s shoulders and strode to the closets, sliding a door aside to reveal several shelves filled with large baskets piled high with cloth.

 

“Here’s where we eat and sleep,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down despite the obvious sleeping forms around them. “Clothes in the far left closets, futons everywhere else. We gotta find something in your size, and that may be a problem, given your stature.” Mac nodded dumbly. He couldn’t help but lightly clutch his stomach with one arm, trying to calm the roiling beneath the body armor. Shi tossed something at him, forcing him to try to snatch it with his less coordinated metal arm. He managed to catch it, nose wrinkling at the pair of short pants. The cloth looked coarse upon close inspection. Another flash and Mac clumsily caught the hat that Shi had tossed at him. “Hat. It’s optional, thank the spirits. Probably won’t wear it, huh?” Shi was looking over his shoulder, the angle of his head clearly conspiratorial. Mac thought back to his hat, left far below in the boiler room. At least it was still recoverable, unlike--unlike--

 

He stepped up right behind Shi, glancing at the occupied futons. “Is that why you made me leave it? Because they would have gotten rid of it?” he asked quietly.

 

Shi paused. “Yeah,” he whispered, so quietly Mac had to strain to hear him. “It’s easy to lose everything when you come to work here. You have to keep what you can. Might as well let you keep something,” he ended with a mumble. There was a short pause. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help with your gun, though.”

 

Mac chuckled, grimly. “Yeah, between the two, I would rather’ve kept her. You knew I had her?”

 

Shi tapped his helmet over where his nose would be. “There isn’t much gunpowder around here. They would have found it eventually.” Another short silence. “She took my swords when I came here.”

 

“Am-”

 

“Yeah, her.” Shi’s voice was bitter now. “It’s part of the contract. You sign, you give up all right to weaponry. She took them and laughed as she threw them away.”

 

Mac shuffled his feet, debating what to do. Shi was staring into the closet, mind elsewhere, a tunic hanging limply from one hand. Finally he ventured, “So you really were a ninja? You weren’ jus’ screwin’ with me?”

 

He got a little laugh out of Shi. “Yeah, a real ninja. You think I got good at sneaking around merely from stealing food from the kitchen?” As if he remembered what he was doing, he dropped the tunic to the ground and reached further into the closet, digging through clothes with an undeserved vigor. He grabbed one and turned, stretching it between his hands and comparing it to Mac’s frame before shaking his head. “Too small. You’re huge, you know that?”

 

Mac shrugged, wincing as his stomach reacted to the movement. “I don’ gotta go to the big an’ tall or anythin’, y’know.”

 

Shi paused for a moment before deciding to let the moment pass. He dug through the basket, leaning forward, almost physically climbing in as he searched. Mac watched for a second, but his stomach gave a particularly severe spasm and he sank to his knees, breathing as deeply as he could, trying to hold the contents of his stomach in. Shi made a triumphant sound as he almost slid back out of the closet, a large tunic in his hands. “I knew we had one big enough for you!” he exclaimed, turning to Mac. “Hey, you all right?”

 

Mac nodded, feeling sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Jus’-jus’ feeling a little under the weather. It’ll pass.”

 

Shi stepped to his side and knelt, too, reaching out to rub reassuring circles on Mac’s back with a cool hand. He couldn’t keep a little worry out of his voice when he said, “Well, let’s get you cleaned up a little and see if some rice would help. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

 

Mac groaned at the thought of food, his nausea almost cresting. But he nodded, and Shi helped him to his feet and back out to the hallway. Shi took him to the next door in the hallway, and inside was a kind of communal bathing area, a few dozen faucets low off the ground and spaced evenly around the pale linoleum walls with low stools and buckets stacked next to each faucet. Shi showed him where the soap was (no shampoo, thought Mac. No conditioner) and left, promising to be back as soon as he could with something to eat. Mac slowly disrobed, pulling off serape, body armor, chaps, pants, and underwear. As he laid them next to the entrance, he froze for a second as he realized their likely fate, alarm coursing through him. Then his stomach roiled again, and he walked away from the pile, defeated, too tired to try to think of how to save them.

 

He kept the comm, though, inserted into his right ear. If anyone asked, it was an earring, or a hearing aid. Or something.

 

He picked a faucet close to a drain, just in case his stomach couldn’t endure. Knocking a stool onto its feet with a nudge of his foot, he sat gingerly, trying not to unsettle his stomach with sudden moves. It had been a long time since he’d bathed like this-- _tienen una forma muy estricta de bañarse_ \--but he was grateful to be sitting. He was dead tired. As he scrubbed his limbs, trying to be gentle with the bruises and rugburns, he alternated between trying to clear his mind and trying to distract himself from the nausea. Either didn’t work for long.

 

There was a tap at the door as it opened. “It’s me,” Shi called as he stepped in. He had two bowls in his hands. He glanced at the Mac’s clothes gathered by the door. “Oh-I, I should have mentioned-”

 

“I know.” Mac let his head drop forward, eyes squeezed shut. “Where should I go to throw them away?”

 

A moment of quiet, then “I’ll take care of them, if you wish,” Shi offered. Mac nodded haltingly, his chin, pressing into his chest with each spastic nod. Shi gathered them up. How, with two large bowls in his hands, Mac didn’t bother to check. Ninja, he thought glumly. The door closed, and Mac sat still for a moment before finishing up, dumping a few bucketfuls of water over his head to rinse off the suds. He thought of his boots and his hat.

 

That’s all a cowboy really needed, right?

 

A cowboy, maybe, but not a sharpshooter, answered some part of his thoughts, way in the back.

 

Shi had left him an undershirt and underwear that were softer against the skin than the coarse, rough fabric of the tunic and short pants. He put on the underclothing quickly enough, but he was grimacing at the outerwear when the door opened to reveal Shi’s silhouette once more. “Don’t worry about that for tonight,” he instructed, holding the door open wide for Mac. “It’s just for work. Bathroom’s next door if you want to use it before eating.”

 

Mac trekked back to the dormitory afterwards, feeling as if that was all he was good for before collapsing. Shi had prepared two futons, way back in the corner, furthest from the doorway. At least nobody would climb over him in the night, but being so far from the exit with a rebelling stomach was worrisome. Mac couldn’t bring himself to care.

 

“Thanks for grabbin’ that grub, but I think I’ll jus’ turn in.”

 

Shi fixed him with a look, no mean feat with the mask. “Are you sure? Eating may help.”

 

Mac smiled wanly. “I feel like anything will jus’ come right back to make an encore performance anyway. I’ll jus’ lay down for a spell, and hope a little shuteye is all I need.”

 

Shi nodded slowly. “It’s about two hours to sunrise. We’ll clear out the customers in about an hour or so, and after that is when most everyone will come in to sleep. Sunset is when we’ll get to work, so try to get a little rest at least before then.” Mac nodded. Shi insisted he drink a large mug’s worth of cool water before he crawled into the futon furthest from the door. Shi turned off the hanging lamp closest to them and crawled into the other. He saw Mac’s questioning gaze and said with a laugh, “It’s not every day I get to turn in early! I’ll just say I’m keeping an eye on my new assistant to make sure he doesn’t wander off somewhere.” Mac nodded and rolled away, facing the wall, his eyes clenched tight, limbs weak with exhaustion, stomach churning.

 

-_-_-

 

The pale, frigid morning light was slowly creeping through the tiny windows that were the sole source of natural light. A cavernous conical space loomed above him, the flat, waterstained concrete icing the air, seemingly permitting the chill of night to seep through while smothering the minute amount of heat that filtered through the windows during the day. Han slowly climbed the narrow spiral staircase the hugged the walls, ghostly steps echoing only slightly before freezing in the frosty air. His breathing was even, easy, unaffected by the long trek as he passed from tread to tread, face momentarily lit by a flash of yellow light as he passed the occasional shaft of light trickling in, heat already long extinguished by the surrounding cold.

 

It took a long while to reach the door set at the tip of that dizzying place. Han placed a hand on the simple brass knob, twisting it and exiting as slowly as he had climbed. His touch left no rapidly evaporating white marks on the knob, nor had any puffs of mist accompanied his breath in that frigid place.

 

He stepped out into domed observatory, three walls taken up by featureless walls, the fourth by an glass facade that filled the arc between the piers supporting the dome above. The four others in the room turned as he entered, but he paid them little heed as he stepped briskly forward to the single door that opened through the facade onto the wide balcony. He swung it open, letting a torrent of cold air pour across the wooden floor. A slight giggle erupted from the blonde heads on the floor as the current slightly ruffled their spiked hair, but it was cut off by the sound of the approaching elevator.

 

Somewhere, unseen in the darkness that lay in thick swathes across the room, doors slid open and snapped shut, and out of the shadows she strode, black cloak streaming off her shoulders. Her lips lifted slightly at the three heads watching her adoringly, her eyes twinkled darkly at the thin, rigidly upright figure dressed in blue-white tunic and trousers, clear faceplate and winged helmet immaculate, a river of black silk cascading over her shoulders as she stood with her hands folded behind her back. But her smile, frigid, icy, chill, allowing no warmth, was reserved for him, flashing bright through the darkness. He answered impassively, perfectly prepared.

 

She lifted and wrapped the cloak around her form and turned, walking out the door and leaping light as a feather onto the balcony railing, perfectly balanced. Then her form writhed, bulged, and two wings stretched grotesquely from each side, flapping with heavy whooshes like waterlogged tree branches in a storm. They beat at the air, grace completely gone as they lifted into the air and sluggishly pushed forward over the wide flat expanse of floodplain. Far lovelier were the blue white wings that suddenly unfolded from behind the still rigid and unyielding figure as she followed, effortlessly blending into the morning sky as she followed the misshapen black stain as it struggled along, wheeling, diving, and slowly climbing back up higher.

 

Behind in the observatory, short cackles echoed in the empty space as the three heads bundled themselves away, heading for the elevator doors now dimly visible in the recesses of the room. Han quietly crossed to the door. He watched the stain slowly shrink, but he did not close the door until well after it faded away to nothing.

 

_-_-_

 

True to Shi’s word, after about an hour and half, voices and footfalls reverberated down the long hallway. Soon a noisy crowd had gathered, paying little heed to the figures curled up in the futons at their feet. Doors opened and slammed at various distances up and down the hallway, the noise level rose and fell several times, accompanied by the doughy smell of rice and something else, something that smelled like wet mulch or compost, sharp and swampy in the humid air.

 

The general topic of conversation, and the only one that was discussed at anything below full volume, was the human lying in the corner. There were many complaints about the smell, ranging from distasteful to downright insulting, and several bets were taken about how long the human would last before--

 

The consequences were the only things discussed in low, inaudible whispers.

 

Soon, slowly, the noise died down, seemingly inversely proportional to the daylight which grew minute-by-minute. Soon the last sparks of conversation were extinguished by a heavy set of footsteps accompanied by bellows. “Sleep! Sleep is what you need, my friends, sleep! Do not let me catch you awake again, for tomorrow will be another day of sweat and labor, a great day! Sleep!”

 

After that, there was mostly silence, broken now and then by rustling blankets, a soft murmur, and a belch here and there.

 

In short, it was similar to every communal sleeping space and barrack Mac had ever slept in, from his Deadlock days to Blackwatch missions, except for the snide comments on his smell. Then, as now, his greatest comfort had been a friendly prone figure at his back, a barrier between him and any mischievous hands that might send him sprawling out of bed. In his Deadlock days, there had been an ever rotating cast with varying levels of trust and distrust at his back. In his Blackwatch days, there had been a much smaller cast, and eventually only a single person who slept there, and the barrier had been insurmountable. Overwatch had been a change, with the first private room Mac had enjoyed in years, with no need of anyone at his back, a positive, if lonely, change.

 

Here, the barrier was untested, almost unknown, literally hidden from view. But Mac learned quickly that it may prove nearly as reliable as in Blackwatch. More than once he’d heard a confident voice say “Where is he? I didn’t get a look at him. Where’s he hiding?”

 

“Over there, in the corner.” Then, lower, “Next to Shi.”

 

And the conversation would stall, and pick up some time later with some other subject.

 

Mac heard all of this, from the first reverberating shout to the occasional belch, because he was curled up in the fetal position, on his side, trembling, afraid to move, with sweat trickling down his forehead. He was torn between the black whirlpool that was currently swirling in the pit of his stomach, his all-consuming fatigue, the paranoia of being discovered like this by giant unsympathetic frog-men, and an intense gratitude to Shi for extending his apparently formidable protection over him.

 

Sleep came in short bursts after the last straggler finally settled down. It was the worst kind of sleep, where Mac couldn’t tell if he was laying on his side, eyes half-lidded, staring at the wall, feeling his stomach clench and unclench, or merely dreaming he was until he started awake at a particularly bad spasm. There was nothing to do but simply close his eyes and will himself asleep again.

 

What he would do to be able to go for a walk, like he had in his Blackwatch days when insomnia had him in its claws.

 

He was fitfully sleeping again when the door slid softly open, almost imperceptibly quiet. He was awake instantly, eyes briefly wide before he shut them again precipitously and listened carefully. He hadn’t heard anyone in the room rustling their sheets or sleepily groan as they sat up. He felt fairly sure someone was looking in from the hallway, though he hadn’t heard anyone approach. Nobody around here took any apparent effort to muffle their footsteps.

 

The voice was a complete surprise. Absolutely nothing had preceded it, no footfalls, no rustling of sheets, nothing.

 

“Meet me at the bridge. Go through the boiler room. I’ll show you where your commander is.”

 

The voice was eminently unwelcome. Low, soothing, whispered almost directly into his ear, packed with false promises and betrayal, bringing a flash of dark eyes and grey hair gathered at the temples. Mac could barely restrain himself from shooting upright and trying his best suckerpunch.

 

Before he had much time to war with himself, he stiffened when he felt something cold and metallic slip under the sheets, stopping next to the bare skin of his arm, sending a shiver up the limb. He did not dare to do anything but stay absolutely still.

 

A moment of silence, and another soft sound of the door sliding closed.

 

Mac waited, counting his breaths, stomach ignored, limbs humming with fatigued energy. After 100 slow breaths, in and out, he opened his eyes, slightly raising his arms to look into his blankets.

 

Peacekeeper was nestled against him.

 

He slowly lowered the blankets again. Counted another thirty breaths. Carefully turned over, each staticky rustle thunder in his ears. He picked up Peacekeeper, closed his eyes momentarily at how _good_ she felt against his palm, and painstakingly crawled out of the blankets, becoming a little more confident when no one, not even Shi, stirred. He grabbed the shirt and short pants crumpled carelessly at the side of the futon, stood, and picked his way towards the door, finally sliding it open and closed with utmost care as he stepped out onto the cool hallway floor. Then, only then, he quietly slid the cylinder open. Six bullets. Fully loaded.

 

Snapping the cylinder back, he quickly put the pants on before pacing down the hallway, still silent, smiling slightly at the thought that he was the only person in the whole goddamn building that bothered to do so, pulling the shirt on as he went, Peacekeeper clutched in his hand, knuckles white.

 

He retraced the route to the stairway Shi had shown him earlier. The hallways were completely deserted, but he walked lightly anyhow, just in case. When he reached the shaft, he went to the handrail and looked down. There weren’t any lights on in the floors below, and while daylight streamed down from somewhere above, it was at the wrong angle to clearly show him how far down he had to go. He could see a small grey square far below, though. Allowing himself a small sigh, he padded over to the gap in the handrail that was the top step of the staircase and began the long trek down.

 

There was no handrail, of course. Mac had to concentrate to keep from swaying too much from side to side, but Peacekeeper was warm in his hands, and his sheer relief at having her back seemed almost a beacon warding off fatigue and nausea as he descended four, five, six, seven flights of stairs before they bottomed out, a single door greeting him as he clattered down the last few steps. Opening it slowly, still wary of running into anyone, he found himself in the cavernous space where the elevator motors were. He did have to reorient himself; there were a couple of dozen motors scattered around, and he wandered a little, a bit lost before he found the two side-by-side with the gap that marked the entrance to the passage leading to the boiler room. He traversed it quickly, impatiently, arriving at the sliding doors sixty centimeters off the ground with the sense that the passage was much longer than the last time he’d been in it.

 

Again, he was careful as he slid it open, revealing the boiler room to be brightly, almost blindingly well-lit in the daytime. The walls that ran alongside the great boiler machine had large windows in them, and one wall apparently faced east. Each window was a glaring square of white light.

 

Mac stepped up and into the room, noting how much cooler it was when the boilers were shut down for the day. The machinery was bare, not a single construct in sight.

 

He frowned as he looked at the corner where he’d left his boots and hat. They were nowhere to be seen. A pang ran through him as he approached the spot, wondering if someone had managed to find and throw away them as well.

 

“Doo? Woo wee sh-sh-wee?”

 

Mac turned around slowly to face Bastion, careful to not startle it like he’d done before. It was standing a small ways away, next to the entrance of what looked like a shed or hanger made of plywood and corrugated steel, off to the side of the room, squeezed between the wall and the boiler. Bastion waved its metallic hand, beckoning Mac closer. He tilted his head questioningly and stepped forward even as Bastion turned and disappeared into the shed. A couple of muffled clanging noises came from within, and by the time Mac was approaching the shed, Bastion was stepping back out. Mac let out a laugh when he saw his boots standing upright in Bastion’s hand, his hat perched on its own head. Bastion let out a _whirr-whirr-whirr-whirr_ , sounding more like laughter than Mac would ever have expected.

 

“Well, thank ye kindly, Bastion,” laughed Mac, marvelling at the swell of emotion he felt as he took his boots from its hand. With a beep it let his hat slip off its head, Mac snatching it out of midair with a flourish before setting it on his head with a happy sigh. “Good t’know they were somewhere safe. I can’ thank ya enough, truly.” Bastion tilted its head, giving a few beeps in response before moving back into its shed, disappearing from view. Mac shook his head, grinning, as he turned to sit on the edge of the wooden platform, pulling his socks and boots on quickly. After a moment of deliberation, he reattached the spurs he’d dropped into one of the boots, sighing fondly as he stood and strode forward with a familiar jingle. His spirits further bolstered, he walked towards the hallway leading outside. There was a questioning beeping off to his side. Without breaking stride, he turned his head and said with a tip of his hat, “Don’ worry, I jus’ couldn’ sleep. Figure a nice walk will set me right. See you in a few.” Bastion replied with a wave.

 

Mac couldn’t help but breathe deep as he let the green door click shut behind him. The air out here was much drier compared to inside, and he felt his hair calm down somewhat as it dried in the heat of the morning. He felt his stomach settling somewhat as he looked up at the cliffside, only the very top bathed in sunlight. Then he turned to the stairway and frowned. It looked--better--in daylight, but not by much. Mac sighed. At least now in the light of day he’d have a much better chance of grabbing a handhold if a step collapsed under him. He jumped from one broken step to another at the beginning, climbed the concrete staircase, then gingerly placed one foot on one wooden step after another. There were several disquieting creaks that led him to skip many, many steps, and as he approached the top he had no trouble identifying which had nearly broken under the slight weight he’d placed on it. It tilted off to side, nearly free of the nails and screws driven into the sideboards. He hesitated, then pushed it free, watching it fall and flutter down, down, down for a few seconds before continuing. Hopefully someone would notice and replace it.

 

He reached the small platform and squeezed through the tiny gate into the ornamental garden. He hesitated again, wondering if he should crawl his way to the other gate. Scrutinizing the windows and seeing nothing, he stood and covered the distance quickly, kneeling again at the other gate.

 

He paused. Looked at Peacekeeper in his hand. Slid out the cylinder out of pre-mission habit. Slid the cylinder back and pulled back the hammer. Breathed in. Breathed out.

 

He hadn’t thought much about the man he was coming to meet as he made his way here. Now he thought as clearly and carefully as he could. What he’d do. What he’d ask. What the man might do.

 

He slid open the fastener, and the gate squeaked open. He crawled through, keeping a lookout as he did so, standing up quickly, not bothering to latch the gate behind him. He scanned his surroundings, the ornamental lamps, the red-and-blue curtain flapping in the slight breeze, the white tellis, the small courtyard that preceded the entrance. Nothing. No one. He looked out over the bridge, approached the edge. Frowned.

 

There was that apparition again. It was still at the handrail in the dead center of the bridge. It was looking straight at him.

 

The white mask gleamed in the morning light. The eyes and mouth were completely untouched by it, opening into black nothingness. The cloak hung open, and Mac could finally see that it was clad in some kind of black combat fatigues. No weapons. No bandoliers. Just black metal boots, black fatigues, black cloak, black hood, white mask. Staring at him.

 

Mac grumbled, pushing a hand under his hat and scratching his head, feeling awkward in his boots, bathhouse apparel, and topped with cowboy hat. Did the thing recognize him from last night? Was it going to try to stop him from leaving? His thoughts flew back to Han, and he scowled. Was this a trap?

 

He tapped his thigh three times with his metallic hand, then took a step, onto the bridge. The figure did nothing but watch him. He took a few more steps, Peacekeeper at his side but still ready. The figure did nothing but turn its head slightly, following with its gaze. Mac was now directly in front of it, a few paces separating them. They regarded each other for a few moments. Then Mac, hardly knowing what he was doing, reached up the brim of his hat, tipped it with an accompanying nod, and strode off, not looking back.

 

Nothing happened. He turned back when he got to the other side, looking back across the empty bridge. It was gone, vanished, the handrail standing bare in the sunlight.

 

Mac was reaching to scratch his head again when he felt more than heard the person behind him. He whipped around, Peacemaker up, the shot lined up in a flash.

 

Han met his gaze easily, too damned easily, expressionless. He was barely two meters away. Too far, for Mac’s purposes. He strode forward, Peacekeeper rocksteady. Han didn’t move, didn’t waver, didn’t do anything except wait as Mac closed the distance. His non-reaction provoking him. A vice seemed to close around Mac’s chest, making him breathe shallow. Barely two paces away he stopped. Peacekeeper was leveled at his chest.

 

“You,” growled Mac, “You have a lot of explainin’ t’do.”

 

“Yes.” Simple, concise.

 

“About the contract.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“About Amari.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“About you.”

 

No answer.

 

Mac’s eyes narrowed, and he took one more step closer. And another. Peacekeeper pressed against Han’s chest, directly over the heart. He didn’t move, didn’t react, just looked into Mac’s face. Not into his eyes, Mac realized. His face. Not his eyes. It was infuriating.

 

“Look at me.”

 

No movement.

 

“Look at me. In the eye.” Han hesitated for the briefest of moments, then flicked his eyes up to meet Mac’s head-on.

 

He was drowning--

 

\--no, _no_ \--

 

He was bursting above the surface, dragging in a breath of fresh air.

 

His eyes were not deep, undisturbed, bottomless and unknowable. In the daylight they were brown and copper, up-close, personal, like shallow pools lined with pebbles of tiger’s eye. Filled with the pain of the past yet achingly present. Looking outward with perfect clarity yet loathe to see what dwelt within. And focused on _him_ , with an intensity neither man could explain.

 

Water rushed past with a roar, darkness giving way to clear blue before breaking into yellow sunlight with a strangled gasp.

 

It was all so--

 

 _Familiar_.

 

Mac came to himself with a small gasp. Peacekeeper was lowered at his side. Han still met his gaze, eye-to-eye, but the moment--the dream? The memory?--was gone. His eyes were still tiger’s eye, but less intense, a little further away, out-of-reach.

 

Not unreachable. Just out-of-reach.

 

Mac blinked rapidly, his eyes watering. He shook his head and lowered his gaze, focusing on Han’s sandaled feet. A heartbeat passed, maybe two.

 

“Come. I’ll show you your commander.” And Han was moving away from him, towards the simple wooden gate and the steep hillside beyond.

 

Mac didn’t, couldn’t follow for a moment. Then, slowly, like he was waking up, taking his first breaths after nearly dying, he followed.

 

Through the gate and down the hill. Tall bushes rose on either side of the path, bursting with flowers of every color, pattern, and shape. Despite their number and size, their perfume was light on the breeze, drawing him forward as he watched Han’s ponytail swish back and forth with his stride, the effect much different than scant hours ago in the bathhouse. His fingers itched to try to catch it, like a cat watching a feathery toy.

 

The field of flower bushes came to an end. Slightly below them was the hog stand on the other side of a small gully, the light of day revealing its sprawling annexes. There was very little noise coming from inside, for which Mac was grateful. The morning was wearing on, the temperature rising, the air muggy. Maybe that would keep the animals inside sleepy and quiet.

 

They stood at the entrance of the haymow. Through another doorway, Mac could dimly see a pen with waist-high wrought iron fencing, with a single enormous pig lying on its side, legs sprawled, completely still. He looked at Han, standing off to one side of the entrance. He looked back, a small, sad frown evident. “Is-is tha’--” Han nodded. Mac turned back to the pen, swallowing. What exactly d’you say to your commander who is now a pig? Mac asked himself as he crossed the haymow and walked up to the pen’s fence. He leaned forward and placed his left hand on it, metal clanging softly on the iron. The pig’s--Commander Morrison’s--visible ear twitched at the sound, but otherwise he seemed to be out cold. Mac felt Han approach from behind. “Is there-” he cleared his throat quietly, causing Commander Morrison to kick his hooves slightly as he slept on. “-is there anythin’ wrong with him? Besides, well, y’know.”

 

Han shifted his gaze from Mac to Morrison, his face changing slightly from sad to pitying. “No. He merely ate a lot of food before he was corralled. He is likely sleeping it off.”

 

“Should I wake him up, d’you think?” asked Mac, biting his bottom lip.

 

“He would not remember you. He does not remember anything about being human.”

 

Mac’s head spun around, fixing Han with an intense look. “But he will, righ’? When he turns back?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Mac’s shoulders relaxed, having tightened at the possibility of Morrison’s amnesia. His stomach clenched ominously. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of how the rest of Overwatch might react, if they could see them here now. He found it nearly impossible to imagine a single person who’d believe him. His head dropped forward as the sense of how isolated, how alone he was in all of this, set in. He wanted to fiddle at the comm in his right ear, wishing he could call for backup, for advice, for anything. He glanced at the man beside him, still a source of mystery and someone he still didn’t know if he could trust. It all weighed heavily on him.

 

He coughed and ground out, “Well, commander, sounds like you had a slightly better night than I did. Jus’ leave everythin’ t’ol’ Mac. He’ll getcha outta here.” He turned away, and with a dry chuckle added, “Jus’ try not t’look too delicious in the meantime.” And he walked away, through the haymow, out the doorway, across the gully, up the hill, and among the flower bushes until the hog stand was out of view.

 

Han found him a few minutes later, not too far off the path. He was sitting to the side of a flower bush, legs sprawled in front of him, hat on one side, Peacemaker on the other, head dropped into his chest. Han approached almost warily, stopping a pace away. Mac showed no sign of acknowledging his presence. His stomach was acting up again, something fierce. Maybe he was sick, he thought to himself, despondent. Maybe on top of everything else, he was coming down with something.

 

Something rustled in Han’s hands. Mac looked up. He had a large, bulky burlap sack hanging from one arm, reaching into it with the other. Slowly he pulled something bright red from its interior. The sunlight caught a gleam of orange on the edge.

 

“No,” gasped Mac.

 

“These belong to you,” said Han simply, holding the serape out. Mac wadded up the serape into a clump and buried his face in it. He didn’t breathe in; a vice seemed to be pressing around his chest again, but this one felt more like relief than anything. He felt the sack drop to the ground next to his leg with a dull thump. After taking a moment to collect himself, he took a deep breath, left the serape in his lap and dug into the sack. It was all there. Body armor, shirt, jeans, chaps, glove, ammunition belt, and, at the very bottom, his holster, the BAMF belt buckle glittering in the sunlight as he pulled it out. He rubbed his thumbs over the engraved letters. A soft inquisitive sound made him look up.

 

Han looked almost startled at the sound he himself had made. He pursed his lips, then said, “Bamf?”

 

Mac couldn’t help but chuckle. “I won’ sully your ears with what it means, sugar.” He paused, having surprised himself with the endearment, but pressed on before Han could notice or ask. “Suffice t’say it means I’m pretty good to have on the battlefield.” His expression, lightly smiling, suddenly darkened. “Not tha’ you’ve seen much proof of that,” he muttered, “Runnin’ from shadows, throwin’ tantrums, pressing guns against yer chest.” Emotions and ideas battled in his head. Getting Peacekeeper and his clothes back had done a lot to restore Han to his good graces, and with that came a surge of guilt. He glanced at Han, still standing over him, and then back down to his belt buckle. “You were actin’. Back in there.”

 

Han shifted his weight. “It was necessary,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “Amari was watching. She has ways of seeing and listening in the main parts of the bathhouse, especially in her own rooms. She was almost certainly observing us.”

 

Mac nodded jerkily. “I’ve been in situations like that before. Bugged rooms, wiretapped phones. I understand.”

 

“‘Bugged’? ‘Wiretapped’?” Han tilted his head, confusion overtaking his face. Mac could hardly keep from grinning. Han was being so open compared to yesterday, as if to make up for the charade he had pulled. Mac was enjoying it.

 

“Never mind. You were sayin’?”

 

Han shrugged, endearingly informal. “It was necessary to appear that we had not met, that I was playing my part as her servant, her enforcer. She uses me to reign in the staff from time to time. You have seen how they regard me. I could not treat you any differently.”

 

“‘Uses you’?” Mac repeated, frowning.

 

Han looked away. “I am-I am contracted as well,” he admitted, “It was to be an exchange of sorts, but she tricked me into indentured servitude. I-” he paused for a long moment. “I do what I can to mitigate her orders, but it is often too little.”

 

Mac didn’t know what to say to that. A tense silence ensued. Mac absentmindedly picked up his jeans, threading his holster through the loops. He decided to shift the conversation a little. “The contract.”

 

Han sighed and dropped to a crouch, still not looking at Mac. “The contract,” he repeated. “It is the indentured servitude of which I spoke. Amari holds every advantage. It can be nullified with an exchange equal to or greater than the value of the labor the servant provides-”

 

“An equal or greater value,” murmured Mac, interrupting with a frown. “I don’ reckon she pays very well.”

 

Han smiled bitterly. “She pays with room and board, and that is enough.”

 

Mac nodded back, still unconsciously threading the holster through the jean loop. Suddenly something fluttered out of one of the pockets, catching his eye. It spiraled into his lap, catching among the folds of his still wadded up serape. He picked it out, frowning.

 

 _Good luck, Jesse! Don’t let Overwatch make you go soft on us!_ was scrawled across the top of the card, just above the $200 giftcard for a night at Chippen-

 

Jesse.

 

Jesse McCree.

 

It was like remembering a dream a week or two after, like smelling something that transported you  ten or twenty years back. It bit like an unbroken bronco, sharp, painful, like an epiphany after days of thought or a slap to the head for missing something obvious.

 

McCree gaped at the card and looked at Han. “My name,” he blurted. “My name ain’ Mac. It’s Jesse McCree. _Jesse McCree_.”

 

Han looked surprised. Then, a small smile spread across his lips. “You have always been lucky,” he whispered gently.

 

McCree stared back, eyes unfocused. “I’d forgotten. I had completely forgotten my own name,” he mused, in shock. “I though’ I was Mac. Tha’ I’d always been Mac.”

 

“That is the other half of the contract. She ‘holds our names in trust.’ She steals them,” he finished baldly, a flash of anger in his eyes. “She steals them so that even if one were able to buy their freedom, they cannot because they are not the person to whom the contract refers. Not any longer.”

 

McCree let out a low whistle, rubbing the gift card and its fortuitous message with his thumbs, glancing down to make sure he wasn’t smudging the writing. _Good luck, Jesse!_ Jesse.

 

“You knew my name.” The words came out as a statement, but in reality they were at least two questions. He didn’t lift his eyes, didn’t want to see Han’s expression as he decided which to answer.

 

The silence drew on, long enough almost to convince McCree that it was, in itself, the answer. Then, reluctantly, “I did. Until you signed the contract. Then your name was lost to me, as well.” He remembered the night before, when he told Han his name. “ _McCree. McCree._ ” like a short mantra. Like memorization. “Names give power over oneself and over others. To lack one--the nameless cannot name the nameless. How can I remember your name when I do not know my own?” His tone was bitter and strangely guilt-ridden. McCree risked a glance. Han was staring at the card, eye narrowed, lips pursed. “The one who wrote you this message--they have their name. They can name you, _you_ , Jesse McCree, not some other Jesse McCree wandering the world, but _you._ And they saved you,” he finished, a strange edge to his voice.

 

McCree stared at the card unseeingly as the silence once again stretched on. One question answered. The other--

 

Water. Pressure on his chest. Darkness fading into light. Tiger’s eye.

 

Why did it feel like he already had the answer?

 

McCree felt something drop in the pit of his stomach, followed by a wave of dizziness that almost knocked him onto his side. The nausea was back, with a vengeance.

 

He must have shown it on his face, because Han, still crouching, shuffled up next to him, a hand reaching into his own shirt and withdrawing a small package wrapped in crinkly brown paper and string, corners exposed. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing four small mounds of rice pressed into rounded, triangular shapes. Riceballs. He offered one to McCree. McCree recoiled.

 

“Oh, thank ye kindly, darlin’,” he muttered, a little breathlessly, trying to force down the bile creeping into his throat. “But righ’ now my mouth feels like a two-way street, y’know?”

 

Han actually chuckled, the sound doing more to calm his illness than anything else thus far, rich and deep.

 

And rare and precious, added some part of his thoughts, a little further up from the back.

 

“You have eaten nothing but a single berry since you arrived here, no?” he gently chastised, grasping McCree’s metal arm and drawing it away from being clutched on his stomach. “I told you that I possess some magic. This will help, more than you expect.” He placed the riceball in McCree’s hand and lightly but insistently pushed it towards his face.

 

McCree sighed, regarding it mournfully. The scent of rice hit his nose, along with a whiff of something fishy. Salmon? His stomach roiled, but to appease the earnest look on Han’s face, he took a small nibble, swallowing a few grains experimentally. His stomach, rather than rebelling, seemed to welcome the small bite, settling down considerably. McCree took a larger bite, teeth snagging on something buried in the core of the rice, savory and salty against his tongue. Salted salmon, like he’d thought. He usually wasn’t much for seafood, but the burst of flavor alongside the moist, fluffy rice was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. He hadn’t finished chewing before he took an even larger bite, chewing quickly and enthusiastically before swallowing with a large gulp.

 

Hunger blossomed in the pit of his stomach. McCree almost snatched the next riceball from Han’s hand, devouring it in two bites. As he chewed, he felt the nausea leave him completely. He sagged, the bush behind him rustling and branches creaking as he leaned against it. With the nausea gone, he felt another wave course through him, a wave of relief. Han pushed another riceball into his hand, and as he brought it to his mouth, he was surprised to feel the tears washing over his cheeks and lips, adding more salty flavor as he tried to power through the emotion welling up through him, the relief, the gratitude, the fear for himself and Commander Morrison ( ~~and Han~~ ), the exhaustion that weighed down his limbs after the adrenaline from his suffering finally waned, it all came cascading down his face even as he stuffed it. He reached out with a shaky hand for the last riceball, eyes clenched shut, sniffling.

 

He wasn’t the least bit surprised when he felt Han’s arm across his shoulders as he pressed the riceball into his hand. It stayed there long after he finished swallowing, as they sat together, backs against the sweet-smelling flowering bush, as McCree wept and sniffled and felt like poison was leaving his veins.

 

They walked back to the gate, side by side, McCree carrying the sack under one arm and whistling softly, nose red. Han walked with his arms clasped behind his back. McCree had unloaded and stashed Peacekeeper inside the sack, and he let his free hand brushed against the leaves and flowers of the bushes as they passed. He was dog-tired, but a healthier, more supportable kind of tired.

 

As Han swung open the gate for him, he paused, looked away and said, “Amari has charged me with an errand. I will be gone at least until tomorrow. Maybe the next day.”

 

McCree grinned, prompting a fleeting look of surprise. “Won’ be around for my first day? Good. I’ve only had two jobs my whole life, so who knows what trouble I’ll get into tryin’ to learn my way aroun’ here. Best for you to avoid the mayhem.” It is amazing, he thought to himself as he watched the small smile spread on Han’s face, what a full stomach will do for your confidence. Han dropped his gaze, shaking his head slightly.

 

“Stay close to Shi. He will not allow anything to happen to you.”

 

“Yeah, he’s a good guy. Little mysterious, with his mask an’ coverin’s an’ all, but a good guy.” He didn’t miss the sudden pursed lips. He quirked an eyebrow questioningly, but Han raised his head, smile replaced with a serious look.

 

“You should go back and rest. It is not yet noon; there is plenty of time.”

 

McCree nodded slowly. “I need it, after a night like tha’, but I’ll be able to now my stomach’s not flippin’ and floppin’ thanks to you. I’ll not be refusin’ any more food from you, tha’s for sure. Every meal I’ve had with you has done me a world of good.”

 

Now _that_ was definitely a blush creeping across Han’s cheeks before he looked away, embarrassment plain. “It was nothing,” he murmured. Then, with a _smirk_ , “We have shared a single meal together.”

 

McCree swept off his hat with a flourish, holding it over his heart and bowing. “And it was one of the best I’ve ever had. Thank ye kindly.”

 

Han let a slight smile replace the smirk, then sobered. “Only remember: you have your name, but Amari must not know. You are Mac everywhere but in your heart. Guard your name closely there.”

 

McCree nodded, still smiling, but determinedly. “I’ll watch myself, if you’ll do the same,” he promised. He set his hat on his head, and, with a wave, turned away and stepped towards the bridge. He felt Han’s gaze on him for a moment, then, with a strange certainty, he knew he was gone. He turned slowly. Han had indeed vanished, in an instant, the gate standing suddenly lonely. McCree frowned, then a flash of light caught his eye, drawing it upward.

 

A long thin form, undulating slowly, languidly, like an eel slipping through water, moved silently away through the sky, slow, graceful movements a stark contrast to its great speed. It was already far enough away that it was hard to see much detail, but McCree could make out a swishy, golden tail and ripples of light reflecting off sheets of iridescent sky-blue scales like pebbles through the sheen of a fast-flowing stream. Transfixed, he followed it with his eyes as he unconsciously crossed the bridge, trying to keep it in sight before it faded away amongst the puffy, darkened clouds and blue sky. With a brief, final flash as it caught the full beams of the morning sun, it was lost from view.

 

McCree had been in the Far East enough times to see plenty of murals, wall prints, and silk tapestries that depicted what he was seeing now. His heart thudded in his chest. Out of everything he’d seen so far, there had been plenty that left him speechless, but this was the first that left him almost breathless with awe.

 

McCree knelt at the small gate, opening it with a squeak, pushing the sack through before following it on hands and knees and closing it behind him, completely on autopilot, lost in his own thoughts. He did not notice the figure, dressed all in black, as it faded slowly into view as it crossed the abutment of the bridge. Another step, off the bridge and into the courtyard, and it faded away once more.


	5. On the Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to aphelia here on AO3, who helped with the prairie oyster idiom when I couldn't think of a good one (she has wonderful McHanzo stories, check her stuff out!), and to Yngvildr from the Discord server, for helping translate!

McCree stirred, and groaned loudly when his hat fell off his face to the ground with a light thump. Intense red-yellow light assaulted him, stinging his eyes even through his closed eyelids. He gave them time to adjust before turning his head away and opening them, blinking as he focused on the machinery of the boilers, lit irregularly through the western windows. The play of light and shadow across the curved metal, gauges, and knobs struck him as strangely artistic as he shook his head slightly, trying to banish the last vestiges of sleep, the good, deep, peaceful sleep he had fallen into.

 

The journey down the outer stairway had swiftly descended into an ordeal as an intense sleepiness stole over him. He had kept as alert as possible, remembering the now-missing step and most of the more questionable ones, but by the time he’d reached the boiler room, there was nothing he dreaded more than the thought of the long journey up the seven flights of stairs back up to the dormitory. Bastion was nowhere to be seen when he trudged through the door and hallway to the boiler room, and he had wadded up his serape and laid himself down on the wooden floor next to Lin’s console platform, asleep almost before his head hit his makeshift pillow, his sack wrapped protectively in his arms.

 

Hours had obviously passed since then, given the angle of the light through the huge windows. It was probably close to sunset.

 

Wincing as his back creaked and popped, he sat up. He frowned as a large thick pad, covered with soft purple cloth, slid off his legs as he shifted. Someone, probably Bastion, had put it over him as he slept. What a contrast to when nothing more than a sliding door had instantly woken him! He must really have been exhausted if Bastion could approach him unawares.

 

He stretched his back and arms with a huge yawn, then shook his legs and stood. He felt worlds better, in a way that only waking symptom-free after an illness could produce. It couldn’t even be spoiled by how stiff he felt after sleeping on the hard wooden floor.

 

“So, you are avake.” McCree turned to find Lin rounding the corner of another hallway that led off somewhere beyond the boiler room. He had two bowls in his hands, piled high with rice and bright red boiled crayfish, forks poking out to the side. The smell hit McCree’s nostrils and he breathed deep, savoring both the smell and the fact that he was reacting properly to food again.

 

“I am, sir. Sorry t’drop in unannounced, though.”

 

“Humph, stop vit tis ‘sir’ business. And I rater expected tat you vould vant to get away from dose new covorkers of yours,” said Lin gruffly. He thrust one of the bowls towards McCree. “Here. Better fare ten you vill find upstairs.”

 

McCree accepted the bowl, bowing uncertainly as he did so. Lin sniffed at the gesture before he climbed the steps to his consoles, taking bites of rice as he did so. McCree stared at the bowl in his hands, momentarily stunned by yet another completely unexpected show of kindness. He looked up at Lin. “Thank ye, most kindly. But ain’ this the crayfish you promised Shi?”

 

Lin chuckled. “It is. But tere’s a storm coming in tat will provide plenty more.” As if on cue, the light streaming through the windows suddenly darkened. With the glare gone, McCree could make out low-hanging, threatening clouds. “Eat. It’s only an hour to sunset, and you must be back to your dormitory before ten.”

 

“Mighty kind of you,” smiled McCree. He sat crosslegged next to his sack, sniffing appreciatively at the crayfish before he picked one up and deftly twisted off the tail. He heard Lin snort.

 

“At least you know how to eat it properly. Shi tried to eat one of the claws whole ven first I gave him vone.”

 

McCree chuckled. “I’ve been to a few crayfish boils in my time. I had t’be shown how, too, my first time.”

 

“‘Crayfish boils’? Humph.” Lin set his bowl off to one side as he busied himself with the console. The great boiler began to slowly grind to life, popping as pressure and heat began to warp the metal. Already McCree could feel the temperature begin to rise as he deftly twisted and unpeeled the crayfish tails and claws, letting the flavor of the meat sit on his tongue along with mouthfuls of rice. The bowl was soon empty as he used his fingertips to capture each last grain. He stood as Bastion came loping in through the hallway from outside with clanking footsteps.

 

“ _Weewee woo!_ ”

 

“And a good evenin’ t’you, too, Bastion. Takin’ a walk?” Bastion nodded, blue diodes flashing. “I hope you enjoyed yours as much as I enjoyed mine.” Bastion gave a short beep in response, before it gestured at the sack at his feet. “Oh, tha’s jus’ a few things I picked up. Uh, you wouldn’-I mean, would ya mind keeping an eye on these for me? I mean, only if you want to and have the room t’spare. I don’ want t’impose.” Bastion gave off a short _whirr-whirr-whirr_ of laughter and scooped up the sack carefully, along with McCree’s boots and hat he had left in the pit the night before. “Thank you. If there’s anythin’ I can do for you, jus’ holler,” he called after Bastion as it disappeared into its shed, a couple of clangs ringing out. He turned to see Lin studying him rather intently. McCree shrugged, a little self-consciously. “I’m constantly gettin’ blindsided by people goin’ outta their way for me aroun’ here,” he blurted in response to the look. “Wouldn’ be decent of me not t’offer the same. Offer’s open t’you, too.”

 

Lin nodded slowly. “Vell. Tere is only the few of us who aren’t frogs or slugs here. Tey do not cater to our needs, so ve are left to look out for each oter, Bastion, Shi, and myself. Tat is not to say tere are none among the oters who are trustvorty, but ve share a certain camaraderie, even if it is a little reluctant.”

 

“Reluctant?” repeated McCree.

 

Lin nodded at Bastion’s shed. “I vould never entertain vorking vit a construct on more or less even ground if I vas not forced to do so, but here I am, and it and I have more in common ten I do vit most of the oters. All te same, vy it continues here, I do not know. It is not contracted. It simply showed up vone day and refused to go, even ven I treatened to break it up for parts.”

 

“That so?” McCree glanced at the shed entrance with a contemplative look.

 

“Indeed. It is the only ting here tat is here freely besides Amari herself. She did not boter to come down ven vord was carried to her of it.”

 

“Huh. So Bastion is its real name, then?” McCree froze. After he had signed his contract, he hadn’t remembered that Mac wasn’t his real name. He had no idea if he was supposed to know or not.

 

There was a brief pause before Lin answered, but it felt long and stretched to McCree. “It is _a_ name. If it had vone before it came here, it has not told me. It has been a stalvart companion, despite my crotchety velcome, so I call it Bastion.” Lin looked sidelong at McCree. “So you have already discovered your predicament? You are avare of your loss?”

 

McCree could only nod after briefly considering if he could hope to cover his slip-up. Lin grimaced. “It is a grave ting, to lose your name. I vould have varned you, but I felt your options vere limited.”

 

McCree laughed hollowly. “You could say they were non-existent.”

 

“Tat is often the case venever somevone shows up here,” Lin grunted. He turned back to his console. “Avay vit you. Sunset approaches. Who have tey assigned you to?”

 

“Ha-Master Han assigned me to work with Shi.”

 

Lin nodded. “Good. He’ll keep an eye on you, but see if you can do te same for him. He tends to attract trouble.”

 

“Will do. Thank ye for breakfast. Y’all care of yourselves, y’hear?” McCree gave a short bow despite himself, ignoring Lin’s snort, and walked to the sliding door. He looked over his shoulder as he opened it. Lin was bent over his console, his own breakfast seemingly forgotten off to one side. Bastion did not reappear. He stepped down and slid the door closed.

 

It took a little while to find the right door in the great space beyond. When he’d come down, he hadn’t quite managed to pin down where he’d emerged from the stairway, so this time he took care to keep track of where the passage to the boiler room was as he poked around. He finally found it after a few minutes of searching and began the long climb. The shaft was somber and dark, making McCree wish more than ever for a handrail as he gained altitude. His legs began to protest long before he made it up the seventh and last flight.

 

He found the hallway to the dormitory easily enough. He hadn’t met or heard a single soul. He was feeling good about his chances of making it all the way back to his futon unnoticed until he took the first right-turn and immediately heard swift, soft footsteps approaching. However, he had time to note that so far he’d only heard two people walk so quietly in the time he’d been in the bathhouse before a flash of white and green rounded the corner ahead of him.

 

“There you are!” Shi’s voice was tempered with relief. “Where were you?”

 

“Well, I-”

 

“I was worried!” Shi cut him off immediately as he skidded to a stop in front of him. “Don’t go wandering off like that!” Shi’s hand darted to the side of McCree’s head and he him twist his ear sharply.

 

“Ow! The hell, Shi, I’m fine, I was jus’-”

 

“Ah, whatever. At least I found you.” Shi stepped to McCree’s side and, turning, lightly pushed him forward with a firm hand between his shoulder blades. “I’m impressed you made it out without waking me up, though. What were you doing? I was afraid I was going to find you half-dead in the bathroom. How’re you feeling? Better?”

 

“If you’d lemme get a word in edgewise, I’ll tell you!” McCree couldn’t help but say it laughingly. It had been a while since he’d gotten a honest-to-goodness scolding from someone. “I couldn’ sleep is all. So I went for a walk.”

 

“A walk. Outside?” Shi’s tone was flatter than a raccoon under rush hour traffic.

 

“Yeah, a walk. I went out through the boiler room and jus’--walked around a little.” McCree smiled reassuring at the mask which was thoroughly scrutinizing him. “My stomach finally settled and I was too tired to climb all the way up here, so I slept down there.”

 

“Ok, you’re new, so I won’t give you too much trouble about how much of a bad idea that was, but it was a very, _very_ , bad idea.” Shi finished off the statement by rapping his knuckles against the back of McCree’s skull. “We’re not allowed to go outside without permission. If we do, and Amari’s here, she knows, immediately. You’re lucky; she and Half-Pint must not be in right now, or they would already have your head on a platter.”

 

McCree’s shoulders had tightened at the mention of Amari. “Really?” he asked softly.

 

“Really. It’s a big deal. If anyone goes outside without permission, the assumption is that they’re running. If they run, their lives are forfeit. It’s part of the contract, and Amari is, ah--enthusiastic when it comes to enforcing her contracts.” McCree shivered. _She uses me to reign in the staff from time to time._ “But you’re alive, which means neither she nor Half-Pint are here. Lucky. Very lucky, cowboy. I thought you used all your luck getting hired and then sneaking past me while I was sleeping, but you had plenty left over it seems.”

 

They walked on, making their way back to the dormitory, McCree deep in thought. They reached the windowed hallway. The entire floodplain was in shadow save for a few patches lit by columns of slanting sunshine peaking through gaps in the cloudbank. There was a dark grey, almost black haze in the distance, announcing sheets of rain rapidly approaching.

 

“Well, we’ll have to get up soon enough anyway. You want to get cleaned up while the bathing room’s empty?” McCree nodded. “Alright. You feeling better? You look better. I can get us breakfast, you must be starving.”

 

“Actually, Lin was good enough to get me some grub.”

 

Shi chuckled. “He gave you my crayfish, didn’t he?”

 

“Well, uh, yeah, he said-”

 

“Ah, that little bastard is always taking me in. He’ll get his, though.”

 

“Oh, well, he said that with the rain-” McCree nodded at the windows, “-he’d be able to get more. I don’ rightly know what he meant by tha’, but he didn’ forget about you.”

 

Shi laughed. “Oh, I know he didn’t, but he’ll get what’s coming to him, all the same. Can’t let him get too comfortable in that little kingdom of his down there. Anyway, I’ll get you some rice. It’s your first day, after all. It’s going to be difficult, so we’ll get as much fuel as we can in your motor.”

 

“Yeah, about tha’...what exactly will we be doin’? Amari-” he swallowed thickly at the feel of her name in his mouth. “-Amari said she was goin’ to give me the worst job she had. Was she, I mean--”

 

Shi waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, she wasn’t kidding. You and I are definitely bottom rung around here, but she was trying to scare you off more than anything. You could call us maintenance if nothing else, but we’ll basically be doing all the odd jobs around here. Cleaning and errands, with a little bit of repair work every so often. We won’t be interacting with customers that much, if at all. We’ll be running our asses off, you’ll learn to hate stairs as much as I do, and most of the others will be looking down their noses at us, but it’s not that bad.”

 

McCree’s spirits lifted considerably at those words. Shi left him in the bathing room, which was, true to his word, completely empty. He laid his clothes next to the door, humming contentedly at the thought that his own clothes were waiting for him in Bastion’s care. He paused for a moment when he thought of Shi’s words from the night before, about the smell of gunpowder. Well, it just meant that it might be smart to move Peacekeeper around, but she was safe enough where she was for now.

 

He had sweated pretty heavily while he was trying to sleep in the futon, and his nose wrinkled at his own funk as he sat at a faucet and began scrubbing. He tried to be as thorough as possible, but he still had to be as mindful of the bruises and rugburns as he was last time. Shi poked his head through the door after a few minutes. “Food’s here. I’ll be in the hallway.”

 

It suddenly occurred to McCree that he hadn’t seen Shi eat or bathe yet. He hadn’t seen him do anything that might require him to take off the helmet or his gloves or his stockings. He’d even slept with the helmet on. He was suddenly consumed with intense curiosity. Lin had said there were only three other people who weren’t frogs or slugs in the bathhouse: himself, Bastion, and Shi. He obviously hadn't counted Amari, who wasn’t a slug, or Han, who was a--

 

What, exactly, Lin was if he wasn’t human was a mystery, and McCree mentally smacked himself for not thinking of it earlier. Bastion was a “construct”, but what that meant exactly was also a mystery. And Shi apparently was not human either. What was he, then? Was he the same as Lin, or something else entirely?

 

Should he ask?

 

He hurriedly scrubbed and rinsed himself off. If he was quick, he might catch Shi eating, and that might be enough to shed a little light. After drying himself off and throwing the damp towel in a bamboo hamper, he put on his underclothes and workclothes, almost falling over in his haste when his leg caught in the short pants. He forced himself to open the door with assumed casual slowness. Shi was sitting across from the entrance. McCree had to hide his disappointment at the empty bowl at his side. Next time, perhaps, if Shi didn’t go out of his way to hide it. They were already pretty friendly, though, so Shi might not mind if he asked. McCree deliberated briefly as he crossed the hallway before deciding to leave it for now. There would be plenty of opportunities later.

 

He sat crosslegged with the other, full bowl of rice between them before picking it up slowly. Shi handed him a pair of chopsticks, which McCree received with a frown. “Never could figure out how keep it all together with these things,” he muttered. Shi laughed at his plight as he tried to snag a decently sized clump.

 

“Just get it down to about half full, and you can just pour the rest in you mouth,” Shi advised, tone warm. He told McCree a little about what to expect when they got to work as he ate, describing the usual routine of cleaning and errands. McCree really didn’t like the sound of how many times they’d likely be sent to fetch supplies from the depths of the storage rooms in the basement to bring to the kitchens or to the entertainment rooms just below and above the baths themselves, respectively. The elevators were heavily used, so it was often faster to use the stairs. McCree was thankful for his lack of fear of heights, but all the same he longed to report this place to any kind of workplace safety organization. How hard was it, really, to install goddamned handrails? They seemed to be everywhere _but_ the stairways.

 

He was just scooping the last few grains into his wide-open mouth, head tilted back, when a booming voice echoed down the hallway. “Awake! Awake! It’s a glorious new day! The boilers are going, the customers are coming! Awake, you ruffians, awake!” The enormous frog, his supervisor, he supposed, strode around the corner, green hat brushing the ceiling, his baggy, voluminous off-white pants flapping with each long stride. He almost bellowed in laughter when he caught sight of Shi and McCree. “Oh ho! What is this? Getting an early start? Good, good! And you managed to drag little Shi out of bed before the sun has set? Wonder of wonders!” He slid open the door to the dormitory, and if it was possible, shouted even louder into its interior. “Good morning, my friends! You are already put to shame by our new human recruit! He is washed and fed and ready! He hardly smells at all, he has been so diligent! Up! Up! Now begins a glorious new day!”

 

A chorus of mutters and shouts were his answer, although none could rival his volume. He laughed uproariously, turned on his heel and disappeared around the corner again with a final trumpeting call to arms shouted over his shoulder. McCree gaped at the display, turning to Shi with his question openly displayed on his face. Shi shrugged. “Yes, he’s always like that. The day he is quiet is the day we lower him into the cold ground.” McCree didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

 

Shi gathered the bowls and chopsticks as the first frogs began to walk out into the hallway with bleary, protruding eyes. He handed them to one of them as they passed with a nod and a cheery “Thank you!” with a mumble in response. McCree rose at Shi’s gesture and they returned to the dormitory, McCree earning a few glares that he was sure he had earned from their supervisor’s overly cheery commendation. For the first time in his life, McCree felt like a teacher’s pet, and he didn’t like it at all.

 

He and Shi began putting the futons and blankets away as nearly everyone else filed out, leaving only a few stragglers who were mostly ignoring them in favor of a few small mirrors as they spread something foul-smelling over their mustaches and eyebrows. When they were finished, Shi tossed him a comb and McCree spent a few fruitless minutes trying to tame his unruly hair and beard before Shi took it away again with a pitying shake of his head. He handed him a green ribbon, directing him to tie it around his waist.

 

By that time, a stream of frogs were passing the dormitory in the direction of the stairs. They joined them, swept along the hallways to the stairway in the shaft where they were joined by a current of slugs wearing colorful yukatas, simple pink uniforms, or white shirts with red pants. As they went up, McCree realized that several of the hallways and windows that looked into the shaft were actually recreation rooms, more dormitories (including one where a frog wearing nothing but a hat and a small, square, red loincloth leaned against the handrail observing the crowd--that wasn’t normal) and workrooms that seemed to offer services to the staff. He spotted what seemed to be a laundryroom full of clothes lines and tubs with washboards hanging on their sides, which struck him as needlessly medieval--did these people know they were in the late 21st century? There was the unmistakable blue, red, and white stripes of a barbershop pole and even a bar of some kind. He wondered how one got assigned to working in the bar. He might even excel there.

 

They climbed up five or six flights before emerging into a large rectangular room with several bulletin boards hung around the walls. The walls here offered the first splash of color compared to the minimally decorated, spartan spaces below with red signs above the boards with white and red tags hanging on hooks underneath. Shi led McCree to one, where he turned a tag labelled 氏 over, white side in, red side out. Next to it was a tag labelled “MAC” in McCree’s own elegant cursive. McCree wanted to ask about that detail, but frogs were crowded in behind him, and he simply copied Shi’s motion and moved on. “All clocked in,” he commented. Shi looked at him and tilted his head quizzically. “Never mind.” Shi then stopped at another board with several pieces of paper attached, filled with Japanese characters which he studied carefully.

 

“Looks like today we begin with bringing up supplies, then cleaning duty in the main lounge next to the garden. Later on they want us to repair some of the doors on the entertainment floor. I think I saw some _tsuchinoko_ up there yesterday, so I’m not surprised. Other than that, we do whatever they hand us. Let’s go. There’s not much traffic going down, so we should be able to use the elevator.” He led him out a pair of double doors into yet another shaft. This was one of the fancier ones, with polished floors and red-painted handrails and pillars. It might even be the same one he had seen flash by when Shi was sneaking him up. They walked to the elevator shaft, which simply yawned open with nothing at all to keep someone from falling in. McCree scratched his head in annoyance. On second thought, he didn’t think he’d ever visit the bar here. This was not a safe place for drunkards.

 

True to Shi’s word, the elevator soon arrived packed full with six or seven people, but he and Shi were the only ones waiting to go down. They emptied out, nodding at Shi and casting less-than-friendly looks at McCree before they stepped in and Shi pulled the lever sending them down fast enough almost to make their feet lift off the ground. “This is the elevator that goes all the way down to the elevator motors,” said Shi, breaking the silence.

 

“The same one--?”

 

“Mmhm.” McCree nodded. He was doing his best to remember where they were, and he was already fairly confident of his mental map. The layout was anything but intuitive, and although he could probably find his way back to the dormitory or the boiler room by himself, he was sure he would be taking a very indirect route.

 

Shi stopped the elevator short of the cavernous space of the elevator motors, explaining they were one stop above. He led McCree into a set of hallways that had been allowed to fall into a state of disrepair. Plaster was flaking from the walls, revealing a patchwork of weaved bamboo sheets underneath, and as they walked a cloud of dust followed. One one side were windows that allowed a bare minimum of light through the thick layer of powder, especially on an overcast day like today. McCree could barely discern the floodplain beyond, confirming they were once more on the backside of the building. Voices echoed down the hallway from somewhere ahead along with the clinking of what sounded like plates and cutlery. Several narrow doorways opened into the hallway, none of which had doors.  Shi led him through one into a room with a low ceiling that was stacked with small crates to about waist-high. “If you keep going down, you’ll go past the dishwashers and come to the loading docks. We get shipments there every few weeks.”

 

“Shipments? From where?”

 

“Elsewhere,” said Shi, with a vague gesture towards the windows. “We might get one soon, since it’s going to rain.”

 

“What d’you mean by ‘else-’” But McCree was interrupted by a rolling peal of thunder and the windows suddenly rattling, the powder falling off in large, congealed flakes as heavy drops pounded against the glass. McCree whistled softly and stepped towards the windows without thinking, watching the world beyond blur through the sheets of water pouring down. It was like someone had directed a firehose against the side of the building.

 

McCree whistled again. “I have seen some downpours in my time, but nothing like tha’ outside a hurricane.”

 

Shi hummed in response, distracted by looking through the crates, lifting one lid before letting it fall back with a hollow thud and moving to another. He found the stack he was looking for, and called McCree over, loading three crates into his arms. McCree huffed at the weight. Shi merely shrugged. “Be thankful we only need six. Now you know why I wanted an assistant. You can’t see it, but I’m grinning like a madman now that all my trips down here have been cut in half.” He picked up the other three stacked on the floor, and they made their way back to the elevator shaft. “Of course, they’ll probably just double the amount of stuff they ask us to bring up, but I can dream.” Instead of even trying to call the elevator, though, Shi started up a stairwell that opened up to the elevator’s side. McCree couldn’t help but sigh. Shi chuckled warmly. “Buck up, today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

 

“You’re like a prairie oyster. Necessary but hard to swallow.”

 

Shi couldn’t let that one go without an explanation. As they climbed, he couldn’t help his laughter. “ _Raw eggs?_ ” Shi shuddered melodramatically. “I’d rather have the hangover.”

 

They continued to chitchat for the first few flights, but by the time they were climbing the tenth flight, McCree was conserving his breath as best as he could as he forced his legs to keep going. Shi, on the other hand, was showing no sign of even breathing hard, earning good-natured glares from McCree as they went. At least he wasn’t sweating as much as he’d expected. The stairwell gradually transitioned from disrepair to utilitarian and back to the slightly fancy red painted handrails and pillars of the shaft that rose to the main part of the bathhouse.

 

Up another seven flights of stairs and McCree’s legs felt like jelly when they finally made it back to the staging area. He managed a dispirited huff when Shi brightly commented on his stamina as they crossed it and brushed by some curtains that hid the staff-only area from view through a heavily ornate entryway with a stylized doorframe carved to resemble flowering vines with gold-leaf petals. Through it he could see the high partitions of the main bathing area that he had seen from the footbridge last night. On their left was the main entrance, with a false wall that directed guests to the blue-walled partitions on the right and the red-walled partitions on the left.

 

“Hey, Shi, I’ve been meanin’ to ask-” began McCree before his trudging feet stumbled a little on the threshold as they headed through the doorway, straightening and continuing, “-is this place, uh--co-ed?”

 

“Co--ed--?”

 

“Y’know, uh--mixed?”

 

“Ah.” Shi stopped and turned slowly, and McCree narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t know the significance of the red and blue _noren_ at the entrance?”

 

“You mean those curtains?” Shi nodded. “Uh--blue for men, red for women?” Shi nodded. Then he burst out laughing at the deep red McCree’s cheeks took on.

 

“Ah, I knew I’d want to witness that,” he gasped out, the crate at the top of his stack sliding dangerously close to tipping off. “I take it you’re from a more, ah--prudish part of the human world?”

 

“Where I’m from, they still got separate bathrooms for men and women,” grumbled McCree, feeling the heat in his cheeks intensify. “Yer lucky if the swimming pool allows ladies to go topless, it’s hit-and-miss aroun’ there.” Shi actually had to go back beyond the curtain and into the staging area to recover, setting his crates down and leaning on them until he could control his giggling. McCree stood by, enduring the questioning looks from the frogs and slugs still streaming past.

 

Finally Shi pulled himself together enough to say, rather breathlessly, “Al-alright. Yes, this place is, as you say, ‘mixed’. I wouldn’t worry too much about it; most of the spirits that come here aren’t what you’d call “obvious” with their gender, if they have one at all.” McCree thought of the sheet-covered spirit with a bucket on its head versus the pig man with a tiny, strategically placed red square of fabric as Shi pressed a gloved hand against the green ellipse that marked his eyes, causing wet spots to appear as the fabric soaked up his tears of laughter. “We color code more on the off-chance our customers have a preference more than to segregate the sexes. We as staff members don’t really pay attention. I’ve yet to see a customer demand a frog leave the red section or a slug leave the blue section. Try not to let it bother you.” McCree nodded mutely.

 

Again they went out into the main bathing area, passing in front of the entrances to the blue and red sections. Between those was a raised pulpit with a stained glass alcove hanging above. Their supervisor sat on a low stool, looking far too big for the small space. He waved at Shi, but he was too busy stacking small red rectangular tags about a handspan long into something hidden from view below the pulpit’s rim to shout anything at them.

 

They entered a large open room that reminded McCree of a rentable convention space in a hotel more than anything. The decor was simpler than in much of the rest of the bathhouse, with floral emblems on the walls that were much fainter or more faded than usual, along with small panels near the ceiling set with small murals of birds in flight. Its most notable features were a small sunken zen garden and the floor-to-ceiling sliding windows that led out into the ornamental garden. McCree had to repress a smile at finally being able to place it in relation to the layout of the bathhouse. There were plenty of other frogs and slugs around already cleaning, and some of them greeted Shi loudly, asking him what took him so long. They took the crates away and set them near the entrance, opening them up and taking out washclothes and mopheads. McCree frowned at the contents. They shouldn’t have felt _that_ heavy.

 

Shi got a couple of mops and a shallow bucket from a nearby supply closet hidden behind a sliding panel and switched out the filthy, tangled mopheads for new ones while McCree filled the bucket at the tap in the closet. “No soap, for the most part. The floor here is too delicate,” said Shi as they moved to the hallway just off the main entrance and next to the shelves where customers left their footware. “If you find a spot, scrub at it, _gently_ , and then--yes, sir?” Shi had kept talking despite the thuds of enormous feet approaching from behind, but they both looked up to find their supervisor looking at them over an open ledger that was comically small in his large hands.

 

“Aha, there you are at last, my friends! We have a change of plan, I fear! As of today, you two will shoulder the weight of the big tub!”

 

“Ah, as cleaners only or--” started Shi.

 

“Aha, no promotion for you today, I’m afraid, little Shi! Just as cleaners, but it will be your main responsibility from now on, as mandated by our dear Amari! Off you go!” And he strode off, the floor vibrated beneath each step.

 

Shi let out a rapid string of Japanese that didn’t sound too pleased. He turned to McCree. “We won’t be needing the water after all. Just dump it in the garden, it’s still clean. Bring the bucket afterward, we’ll need it to carry supplies.” And he stalked off towards the hidden closet, muttering under his breath.

 

McCree bit his bottom lip before lifting the bucket and going to the sliding windows. It was heavy enough to require two hands, so he set it down to slide a panel open. The rain here was heavy, but far more gentle than the torrents pounding the windows around the back. This side must be in the lee of the bathhouse, he surmised, as he squatted and lifted one side of the bucket, letting the water slosh out onto the ground outside. As he stood and turned it upside down to shake the last drops out, something white caught his eye.

 

Out in the rain, standing next to the bush that McCree and Han had hidden behind the night before, was the masked apparition from the bridge.

 

It was, once more, staring straight at him, the empty black eyes boring into his own, the elongated V of the mouth equally empty, almost gaping. Rain streamed in rivulets off the soaked fabric of the hood and cloak, which hung open despite it all, revealing the tight combat fatigues that gleamed wetly in the light from the windows. It was a creepy yet almost pathetic sight, seeing the mask almost floating in the darkness alone in the rain.

 

McCree was momentarily frozen by the sheer _nothing_ in those eyes, but he shook himself and bowed, bucket hanging limply at his side. He hadn’t seen the apparition anywhere but on the bridge before. Maybe he’d been mistaken about it being a watchman? Maybe it was a customer who had simply taken its sweet time coming in? McCree had, after all, almost zero experience with spirits, so he couldn’t claim to know what was considered “normal behavior” from the plethora of shapes and forms he’d only glimpsed up to now.

 

The apparition tilted its own head slightly forward when he bowed, but a small shake accompanied its shoulders as it did so, and McCree frowned. Was it a bow in reply, a faint shiver from standing in the pouring rain, or a quiet chuckle? He was oddly certain it had been the latter, even if he couldn’t place exactly why. The silence stretched on uncomfortably. McCree hesitantly broke it. “Uh. Hello. Uh, I mean, welcome?” The apparition tilted its head forward and to the side slightly in response to the half-question. McCree didn’t know how to take that. “Um. It’s comin’ down like judgement on a sinner out there. I don’ reckon you wanna come in, uh--honored guest?”

 

No reply.

 

“Hey, Mac! Let’s get a move on!” shouted Shi from somewhere behind him.

 

“I’m a-comin’!” called McCree over his shoulder. He shuffled his feet, glancing at the sliding patio door. “I’ll jus’ leave this open for you. Enjoy your stay!” he bit out the final words with ill-assumed cheer before turning and trying not to walk faster than usual away and not looking back.

 

Behind him, the apparition moved almost immediately when McCree turned away, stepping quickly to the door before cautiously leaning in, as if it were letting its eyes adjust or sniffing the air. Then, with a single metal thigh high boot silently planted itself on the wooden floor, it stepped up and into the bathhouse and simultaneously faded from view.

 

McCree, meanwhile, was being led by Shi through the red section. Shi had two pushbrooms with stiff bristles hoisted on one shoulder, while McCree carried a number of washclothes, scrub brushes, a large bar of soap, and what looked to be two short coils of rope in the bucket. They passed by the entrances of other tubs, all of which were being attended by a mix of frogs and slugs scrubbing the floors or filling them with streams of water from troughs that seemed to drop down from the walls like fold-away ironing boards. They all seemed to be watching for Shi to pass by, stopping what they were doing and calling out, “Hey Shi! Got the big tub now, eh?” “Putting that human brute to work right away, aren’t they, Shi?” “No more stairs! Just the big tub! Lucky you!” Shi didn’t deign to reply to any of them.

 

They came to the last entrance and McCree could see where the ribbing was coming from. The tub was enormous, rising from the floor in two tiers with the rim level with McCree’s shoulders and easily three meters across. It and the floor were absolutely covered with long thin green leaves that looked like drying seaweed more than anything else. The tub was full of turbid, thick-looking water with more seaweed floating languidly across the filmy surface. It smelled strongly of clay, rotting plants, and sulfur. The tub itself was offset from the regular layout the rest of the tubs followed. It straddled the line dividing the red and blue section with an entrance into each on either side. The color scheme was a light mauve, with swirls of red and blue emanating from each respective entrance.

 

Shi sniffed at the sight. “Well. Here we are.” He stepped down into the sunken floor surrounding the tub, the seaweed rustling with a sticky, damp smell beneath his stockinged feet. McCree was loath to follow, but follow he did, shuddering at the slimy feel beneath his own bare soles. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. This is reserved for our filthiest guests. I don’t know who used it last, but this is pretty typical from what I’ve seen. The frogs who had it before us, Kosugi and Kawahara, I think, were getting written up for being a bit lax in keeping it clean, as you can see.” McCree nodded, grimacing, then letting out a short yell when he stepped on a particularly gooey piece of seaweed and his foot slipped out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor. Shi snorted, but quieted at the sound of giggling coming from the entrance to another tub across from theirs. He helped McCree back up, and they gathered up the supplies that spilled from the bucket, and set to work.

 

The seaweed was an absolute nightmare. They used the pushbrooms to skim it off the surface of the water in the tub and gather it all up in several large mounds, but Shi laughingly assigned McCree to actually gather dripping masses of it and carry it out to large burlap sacks set at intervals along the hallways for the staff to throw away their customers’ various detritus. McCree caught glimpses of bright feathers, pearly scales, and nauseatingly huge clumps of fur before he dumped the seaweed on top. Given that everything else seemed to be various kinds of shedding, he tried not to imagine what, exactly, this seaweed had come off of, or if it was actually seaweed at all.

 

After that was done, there was a suspicious brown substance smeared around the floor and the outer surface of the tub that looked like mud but smelled faintly animal. Thankfully, it dried quickly into a crumbly powder once the seaweed was removed, and they were able to use the pushbrooms to gather most of it up into a large washcloth that McCree tied into a bag and threw out before using more washclothes to wipe away any left behind. Slowly, the light wooden floor brightened up from beneath the grim, and the outer portion of the top looked decently clean.

 

“And now the hard part,” grumbled Shi. He showed McCree a small panel in the floor close to the tub that opened to reveal a brass handle. He pulled it sharply, and the sound of water rushing through plumbing came faintly through the floor. The surface of the water in the tub shuddered, rippling slightly, and began to descend. McCree could see over the rim as he stood next to Shi, and his curious look took on more and more of a scowl as the water revealed thick, green-black sludge clinging to the sides. Shi waited until there were only twenty or thirty centimeters’ worth of water swirling around the bottom by McCree’s estimate before pushing on the handle and letting the panel fall shut with a sharp _thwack_. McCree had climbed up to stand on the rim, looking down into the nearly empty tub. It was deeper than he thought, dipping below floor level so that if he were to jump in, the rim would be just a little over his head. Not that difficult for him or Shi to climb out of, but he had a little more empathy for his frog coworkers and how difficult it must have been for them to get in and out.

 

Not that they seemed to have taken the trouble. The sludge lay thick on the sides of the tub. It had obviously not been thoroughly cleaned for ages. His hands and forearms were already filthy from the seaweed, and he had been eying the small footbath tucked into one of the corners of the room, itching to wash them off, but there would be no point now. He rubbed his prosthetic thoughtfully, wondering if the sludge would be able to somehow get into the internal mechanisms. He bit his bottom lip, suddenly thinking of Shi’s gloves and stockings. They’d get ruined by this. He turned around carefully, trying to make sure he didn’t sleep and plunge headlong into the tub, and froze.

 

Shi had anticipated the problem and had already stripped off the gloves and laid them next to the bucket. He was tugging off his stockings as he sat on the edge of the sunken floor.

 

McCree could see the scars from five meters away.

 

Shi’s skin was now bare from bicep to hand and from knee to foot. Every square centimeter looked rough, almost pebbly with scar tissue from burns and crisscrossed with thin white marks from cuts and slashes. McCree had seen enough scars and possessed enough of his own to know the difference, and the sheer amount was staggering. He sucked in a sharp breath at the sight, and then, in a completely unrelated turn of events, lost his footing.

 

Luckily, he didn’t tumble into the tub itself, but his rump met the exterior surface hard, jostling his spine. His legs scrambled against the smooth surface, but he couldn’t stop himself from sliding down and thumping hard against the wood floor. “Aw, goddammit all,” he swore, legs sprawled in front and hands massaging the sides of his backside.

 

Shi burst out laughing, clutching his sides and sinking to the ground on one knee. McCree continued to curse under his breath, leaning over to one side to take a little pressure off his throbbing buttocks and waiting for Shi to stop. “Aw, quit it, you sonuva-I’m willin’ t’bet you’ve fallen on yer ass a fair number of times,” he groused, lifting his head to check if any of their coworkers were watching. A few were poking their heads out into the hall before withdrawing with audible snickers, causing McCree’s scowl to deepen. Shi did make a visible effort to contain himself, raising a hand to where his mouth would be and biting it through the fabric, but his shoulders were still shaking. When McCree groaned and made to stand up, Shi moved with surprising speed to his side, offering a hand to pull him up. McCree tried to hide his hesitation at grasping it. Despite the rough scars, the skin looked delicate, like he might tear it off by accident. But Shi’s grip was strong, if cold, and he gave no sign of pain as he pulled him to his feet.

 

Still chuckling, he patted McCree on the back. “I have, cowboy, but not for a very, _very_ long time.” He retrieved the coils of rope and the bar of soap from the bucket and handed a coil to McCree before he climbed up to the rim surefootedly, beckoning him to follow as he jumped in, disappearing from sight with a loud splash. McCree followed carefully, crouching and trying to half-jump, half-lower himself in without splashing too much or touching the side of the tub, both with mixed success. Shi showed him how to hold the coil and use it to scrub at the sludge after lathering it up with the soap.

 

McCree tried to keep his mouth closed as they worked. The sludge had the consistency of almost-dry plaster and came away unevenly, catching the rope and causing the ends to whip around and throw droplets of suds and filth into his face. Shi, protected by his mask, was able to talk freely, and didn’t seem bothered by McCree’s wordless hummed replies. He spoke mostly about the customers that had used this tub in the past, ranging from great shaggy spirits recently returned from months in the forest with covered in mud and matted fur to river gods who came to purge themselves of runoff from the rainy season.

 

McCree listened, both because he was interested in what kind of creatures he’d apparently be cleaning up after and because he was trying not to look at Shi. He couldn’t help a few glances at him, and he’d already spotted a chunk of muscle missing from Shi’s left calf that looked like it had been bitten off more than anything, though McCree couldn’t be sure of that. He burned with curiosity. Years of Blackwatch left him fairly cavalier about things like scars and missing limbs. More often than not, they were the gateway to a good story, although his own prosthetic had a less than glorious origin. But Shi was a civilian and, moreover, had kept his scars hidden, and he couldn’t be sure if it was by choice or some stipulation of those damned contracts.

 

He tried to distract himself by scrubbing as furiously as he could until his arms and shoulders ached.

 

Between the two of them they made excellent progress. They managed to clear off the dull ceramic inner surface of the tub from the rim down to about elbow-level when heavy steps and a booming voice began to approach.

 

Their supervisor was loud enough that they could faintly hear him speaking to the staff working several rows down, close to the entrance, but he still took his message to each individual room, and he poked his head into the big tub’s entrance and shouted, “Little Shi! Mac! Our first customers of the day have come at last!”

 

“Alright!” called Shi. He surveyed the tub and the untouched sludge. He sighed. “Out of time. Luckily, we don’t use this tub every day, so with a little luck we can hide the sludge until tomorrow. I’ll finish up, you go and get an herbal soak tag from the supervisor.” McCree nodded and began to hoist himself to the rim. Water that resembled black syrup dripped off his legs and feet. “Don’t forget to rinse off in the footbath before you go into the hall.”

 

McCree did so, washing his hands and arms, too, while he was at it. He took a moment to mop up his dark grey footprints with a washcloth before padding through the blue section to their supervisor’s station near the main entrance. He passed a few customers, mainly those strangely anthropomorphic ducks and what looked like a giant walking head with a fringe of tentacles covering its body from nose-level down. McCree breathed in and out slowly. Don’t stare. Do not. Stare.

 

Their supervisor was sitting at his undersized pulpit. As he approached, he saw several of the staff walk up and receive the wooden tags he’d been arranging earlier. He could see simple symbols on them as he got closer, along with notches on one end that looked like the jagged teeth of a key. He arrived as the supervisor handed one to a slug escorting a towering red skinned cross between a troll and traffic cone with thick orange hair on the crown of its head and wearing a white bathrobe. The supervisor turned back to him and smiled wide. “Ah! Our new recruit! What do you require?”

 

“Shi sent me to get a tag for an herbal soak,” McCree replied as professionally as he could.

 

The supervisor laughed uproariously, which he expected by now, but then he waggled a finger admonishingly at him. “Little Shi can’t fool me! And he shouldn’t be passing his bad habits on to you! Go back and keep scrubbing until you are done! And tell Little Shi-” A sudden ringing interrupted him, and the supervisor lifted an old style phone receiver to his ear. “Supervisor!” And then, he lowered his voice for the first time McCree had ever seen. “Ah. Ah, yes, ma’am, I apologize.” He turned his head from McCree as he murmured softly into the phone. McCree waited, thinking that he better stick around to hear whatever he was going to say.

 

That was when the apparition faded into view. It was standing to the side and behind the supervisor, as if it were looking over his shoulder. McCree’s eyes narrowed. The hood and cloak were bone-dry, the mask bone-white as ever, and, once again, the eyes were fixed on his. This time, however, the exchange was quick. It nodded at him, deliberately. McCree nodded back, hardly knowing what he was doing. The apparition quickly faded from view. McCree stood stock still for a moment before a tag floated into his field of vision from behind the supervisor’s pulpit. It suddenly snapped sideways and flung itself forward as if tossed from between invisible fingers.

 

McCree caught it deftly just as the supervisor said, “Of course, ma’am. I will keep a close eye on things,” and turned to place the phone back on it cradle. McCree quickly pressed the tag against his forearm with his fingers and hide it against his side. “Ah, yes, and tell Little Shi not to think he can sneak anything past me! Off you go!” McCree bowed and turned, feeling the tag slip a little as he walked quickly back the way he came.

 

His thoughts were occupied with the apparition. Apparently it was a customer? A customer who took an interest in helping the staff out? To help _him_ out, maybe? He shook his head and glanced over his shoulder. The supervisor was talking to three agitated-looking frogs that had come up to him in a group, pointing excitedly towards the entrance. There was nothing to indicate whether the apparition was still there or not. Whatever it was and whatever its interest in McCree was, it was gone for now.

 

He returned to Shi, who had gathered all their equipment together in the bucket next to the pushbrooms. He gave him the tag. It had four black stripes contrasting with the red background, with a few rectangular and triangular teeth on one end. Shi looked it over. “What, he even gave you a deluxe?” He sounded amazed. “He already likes you more than he does me. I’m livid.” He walked over to one of the walls, the only one that wasn’t a thin partition. It had a simple mural of a ponsai--no, _bonsai_ , thought McCree with a little flash of memory. Hidden on the trunk was a small groove that Shi latched onto with a nail and pulled open. He had put his gloves back on, and McCree glanced down to confirm the stockings were on, too. He looked back at the hidden compartment. All it had was a single slot. Shi inserted the tag into it, jagged end first. “You just slide the tag in the slot until it clicks. That tells Lin’s boiler what kind of water to send up, somehow. Then the tag-” With a jerk, the tag disappeared through the slot. “-goes into the retrieval chute and all we have to do is wait for the water.” Shi turned to the left, looking expectantly at a spot high above their heads.

 

With a pop and creak, several panels seemed to peel away from the wall and fall forward, revealing a trough that fell into place with a sharp bang, a looped rope hanging from the mouth poised over the tub. “That was quick. The rain must be keeping customers away,” commented Shi as he climbed up to the rim of the tub next to the dangling rope. McCree clambered up after him. Shi motioned at the rope. McCree took a hold and gave it a tug. A mechanism clicked somewhere in the trough and green-tinted water rushed down and into the tub with a splash that soon quieted into a loud bubbling sound as the bottom filled in. Steam and mist lifted off the surface with a sharp smell like bitter mint.

 

“And that’s that!” said Shi, satisfaction evident. “Just tug on it again when you want it to stop.” He slid down to the floor, showing off his coordination, McCree thought wryly. He picked up the bucket and pushbrooms and walked towards one of the entrances, saying over his shoulder, “I’m going to put everything away, then I’ll come and take you upstairs to take a look at those doors.”

 

“Roger.” McCree watched him walk out of sight before turning to the tub and watching it fill. The torrent of water was filling it faster than he expected, so he remained at the rope until it got to within a few tens of centimeters to the rim. He figured they could top it off if they needed more, whoever “they” was, as he tugged once more on the rope. With a click and the clunking sound of a water hammer inside the plumbing in the wall, the water narrowed to a trickle and a drip, and the trough folded itself back into the wall with a small creaking noise. McCree turned to edge down the tub and there, again, was the apparition.

 

It was sitting on the edge on the sunken pit, cloak swept back over the ground behind him, bent forward with its elbows on its knees and its chin resting in its hands. Studying him.

 

McCree stumbled, catching himself before he crashed onto his ass again. He carefully made his way down to the floor, stopping as soon as he made it to stable ground. “Well, howdy,” started McCree, before biting his tongue at the overly familiar tone. The apparition shifted slightly when he spoke. McCree cleared his throat self-consciously and tried again. “The bath isn’ ready yet, uh, sir,” he stammered a little as he looked over the musculature underneath the tight combat fatigues, the thick legs and wide chest evident. “I’m new here, so I’m not sure what the protocol is around here yet. Lemme go find-”

 

McCree’s words were cut off when the apparition stood and cocked his head to the side, working out cricks in his neck with audible pops before it strode forward. McCree had never seen him move so much. He had to stop himself from moving back, his instincts kicking into high gear with alarm. The apparition walked with intimidating confidence as he bore down on McCree like a black storm cloud, cloak swirling around his legs. McCree was relieved when he stopped two paces away. He tilted his head, the blackness behind the eyeholes studying him carefully. Then, his hand moved to one of his pockets. McCree tensed, eyes switching from the pocket to the mask, letting his distrust show in his face. The apparition’s shoulders shook a little. A silent laugh? And he withdrew three tags and held them out to McCree.

 

McCree stared at the offering, nonplussed. “Those--are for me?” he couldn’t stop himself from asking. The apparition took another step forward, waving the tags in McCree’s face, impatiently, it seemed. McCree was already backed against the tub, so he stepped to the side to put a little distance between them. “Well, thank ye for bringin’ me those, I guess, but I only needed the one.” The apparition _huffed_ , the first sound he’d heard from him, before with a quick step he caught McCree’s shoulder with his other hand. McCree scowled and tried to shrug it off, but the grip was like steel. The apparition pulled McCree forward until they were literally face-to-face, noses separated by only a few centimeters. Even this close, McCree saw no sign of eyes. The holes in the mask might as well have been holes in reality, the edges almost seeming to float over the nothingness like ships on the surface of the sea.

 

The apparition raised the tags into the narrow space between them. McCree didn’t take his eyes off the eyeholes, even as he felt the beginnings of vertigo, seeing the tags in the edge of his vision.

 

And suddenly, he had the sense that the apparition was going to rap the side of his head with the tags. Almost like--just like--

 

The apparition tucked the tags into the collar of McCree’s tunic, letting them fall inside. They slid against his skin and collected at the ribbon belt wrapped around his waist, clinking softly against each other. At the same moment, the apparition let go of his shoulder and stepped back, hands at his sides. He nodded at McCree’s waist. McCree breathed in and laughed nervously, still horribly uncomfortable. “Well, if you insist, I suppose. Ain’ no harm in carrying a couple extra.” He cleared his throat again, before adding, “Although if you really wanted to help--” before he cut himself off, cursing internally. He’d gotten nervous and his big mouth had taken over.

 

The effect on the apparition was immediate. He tilted his head, quizzically. When McCree made no sign of continuing, he stepped forward again. McCree tried to match him step for step, but the tub behind him made it difficult to maneuver, and the apparition caught hold of his shoulder again, but this time, the grip was gentle, and the apparition kept his distance otherwise. McCree froze, suddenly unsure. The apparition gestured at McCree’s mouth, moving his pointer finger in a circle, urging him to continue. “You--you wanna know how you can help?” The apparition nodded. “Well, I mean, I dunno if you can--” The hold on his shoulder tightened. McCree bit his bottom lip, glancing at the entrances. No one in sight, and this apparition--this guy--had helped him before.

 

But then the contract came to mind, and he laughed hollowly. “Well, partner, I appreciate the thought, but you can’ really help me get out of here. Amari’s got me in her clutches, y’know? But thank ye--” The gentle grip on his shoulder was gone. The apparition took two steps back and vanished, not slowly as he’d done before, but vanished from sight in an instant. McCree blinked and hesitantly stepped forward, waving his metal arm through the space the apparition had occupied, but his arm met nothing. He scratched his head, disconcerted. “Maybe he agreed wit’ me,” he muttered.

 

“Who agreed with you?” asked Shi as he entered from the hallway. McCree whipped his head around with surprise. “Wow, you okay there, cowboy? You look like you met the vengeful ghost of your father.”

 

McCree opened and closed his mouth, considering. “Does that--does that happen?” he finally got out.

 

Shi laughed. “Not very often, but yes. It takes a very stubborn being to become any kind of spirit. So, if you really pissed off your stubborn old goat of a father-” Shi was interrupted by rapid pounding footsteps that began to shake the floor as they approached. They looked at each other, McCree’s eyes narrowed and Shi with his head tilted. The supervisor bounded into view. McCree had an instant to see the sweat rolling down his skin and the fear in his eyes as he belted out, “Little Shi! Mac! Amari-sama requires you, at once!”

 

McCree felt a chill steal through his body. He glanced at Shi. His shoulders had been relaxed under the loose folds of his tunic, but now they were tight, and he rolled them a couple of times before he nodded at their supervisor and made for the entrance. McCree fell into step beside him as the supervisor turned and jogged down the hall. “What could Amari want with us?” hissed McCree as soon as the supervisor was a good distance away.

 

“I don’t know. But look, they’re getting all the customers out. Something big is happening.” And indeed, the hall was choked with spirits of every description being herded out by slugs and frogs bowing and apologizing. The spirits with faces looked confused and upset, but nothing matched the agitation of the staff as they darted in and out among their customers, speaking in hushed tones to each other.

 

Their supervisor returned, cutting through the crowd easily. “Quickly! Quickly! There is little time!” he flat-out yelled as he stepped behind them and pushed them forward with a giant hand between each of their shoulder blades, obligating them to break into a jog as he puffed along behind them. He escorted them this way all the way to the main entrance. As they rounded the false wall, McCree drew in a shuddering breath as quietly as he could.

 

Amari was there, dressed as she had been in her rooms, blue hood over her head, white tuft of hair over her cheekbone. She turned her head towards them with a thin-lipped, cold smile, and he felt Shi stiffen beside him, mirroring his own reaction. Her body was facing the entrance, blue-and-red _noren_ fluttering in the air currents created by the still-pouring rain, the smell of petrichor wafting strong in the air. McCree was dimly aware of the warm air moving past his head as it switched places with the cold air pouring past his legs, chilling his feet and numbing his toes. It almost felt cold enough to be winter, like opening a door onto a moonless nightscape of newly fallen snow.

 

Amari curled her lips, momentarily showing her teeth before she spoke with a falsely even tone. “Aha, there you are, _tanin_ , _raei albaqar_ . We have very little time. We are expecting a rather unique guest at any moment.” She chuckled darkly. “She slithered in under the cover of the storm. If I had sensed her sooner, I may have been able to ward her off, but--” She shrugged, dancing a line between frustration and fury. “Tonight will be a total loss, with her here. But we have no choice but to welcome her, and then send her on her way as soon as we can. The problem is--” and now she turned and stalked towards them with a calculating look, studying McCree’s face. He dropped his gaze to the floor. “--most of my staff, nearly all of my staff really, have never crossed paths with her. They have never encountered her once in their miserable lives, thanks in no small part to my protection,” she said, smugly, as she stopped in front of them. “Consequently, they cannot face her.” McCree felt like the supervisor’s hand pressed into his back was the only thing preventing his retreat as Amari approached. He studiously examined the floor, trying to mentally distance himself as much as he could. It was all for naught, though, when she grabbed his chin and wrenched his head up to look her in the eye, his scruffy beard grinding under her grip and burning his skin. Her eyes were dark, iris indistinguishable from the pupil, and McCree thought momentarily of the apparition’s mask. But with him, there was nothing in the darkness. With her, there was a presence, like knowing when someone was following you down a dark street, like a sound just outside the range of hearing vibrating in your bones. He swallowed as he stared into her eyes, and she grinned. “ Oh, yes, _raei albaqar_. I think you know her well.”

 

Shi made a soft sound, bowing low, drawing Amari’s attention to him. “Please, ma’am. Who is _she_?”

 

She released McCree’s chin, to his immense relief. She reached over to Shi and knocked a knuckle against his temple through the cloth of his helmet. “You do not know her as well as Mac, I’m afraid. You have only met her once.” And she walked back to her original position, looking out through the entrance. “Who is she?” she asked softly, almost to herself, almost musingly. McCree felt a change in the air. The warm draft past his head stalled, recoiling, ruffling through his hair before it reversed course, beaten back by a current that really was the breath of winter come in midsummer. “She is only an emissary, one of many.” The petrichor faded, and the smell of ice slowly built. “But she is enough.”

 

From outside, there was the sound of a solitary foot tread, clicking across the bridge with unhurried steps. McCree felt a familiar energy course through his limbs and veins. Adrenaline, fight-or-flight. He glanced at Shi, tense and upright beside him. He felt the hand on his back tremble and vanish as the supervisor beat a hasty, noisy retreat. Amari stood in the dead center of the entrance hall. She nonchalantly twisted her tuft of hair around a finger before allowing it to spring free. Her hand dropped back to her side. The footsteps approached, clicking across the textured cement of the courtyard.

 

Pushing back the _noren_ , she entered. She was dressed in evening wear, wingtip shoes, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, all black, except for the waistcoat that matched the blue-purple tinge of her skin. Her raven hair swept up into a high ponytail that swung pendulously behind her with every movement. She paused as she took in Amari, with a cold smile, Shi, rigid and masked, and finally McCree. Yellow eyes slowly blinked, and deep violet lips curled to reveal a hint of white behind. She turned slightly and walked, slow, precise, deadly, straight to McCree, having eyes for no one else in the room.

 

She stepped up to him and made to cup his cheek with her hand. Every nerve, every instinct screamed. The Blackwatch in him roiled, urging him to strike before she could. The Deadlock in him recoiled, urging him to throw Shi in front of him and run, leaving him to his fate. And somewhere in his thoughts, halfway up from the back, came a strange desire, split between wanting to spit in her face and yearning to touch that strange blue skin and see if the cold merely accompanied her or if it _was_ her.

 

But he had been down this way before. Icebound, wrapped in fog, dark as a clear night without moon or stars, and he knew there was nothing he could do but take it slow, draw it out, and wait to see if today was the day he reached the end of that too-familiar road.

 

Her hand, blue-purple as the veil of night that chases the sunset, stopped millimeters from his skin. “ _Ah, mon cher ami,_ ” she sighed. “ _C’est agreable de te voir de retour aussi vite._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Ah, mon cher ami. C’est agreable de te voir de retour aussi vite.  
> Ah, my dear friend. It's so nice to see you again so soon.


	6. The Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I have raised the rating from Teen to Mature, due to some, um, field surgery, I guess I would call it? Anyway, it turns out I was going to have to raise it anyway, so just be aware from here on out, it's Mature.

McCree spoke almost immediately, tone smooth. “ _Ça me fait de la peine_ , ma’am, but I haven’t been out t’L’Acadiane in a long time. Come again?”

 

A full-blown grin enveloped her mouth, her pearly teeth shining against her dark lips. He had enough time to wonder at his own surprise that she didn’t have fangs before she replied, “Such a shame you have not kept up. So few do. There are some things that should never die, and languages are one such thing.”

 

“That’s mighty surprising, comin’ from you.”

 

She laughed at that, and while the laughter itself was cold, the hollow echoes that bounced back from the cavernous, abandoned interior of the bathhouse had a strange edge of mirth, as if they had had time to warm slightly in the vapors of the baths before returning. It was enough to stop the shivers running up and down McCree’s neck. “Oh, be not surprised. They may not die outright, but they do not wade through the stream of time unscathed. They change, slowly and steadily, until they are unrecognizable, and is that not similar to death? But they remain. Perhaps only one word in ten thousand is left, but they remain.” She withdrew her hand, depositing it on her own shoulder as she looked McCree up and down, the grin relaxing into a simple smile. “You look well. Permit me to be surprised to see you here, of all places.”

 

“Aw, well, y’know. I was jus’ wanderin’ around and managed t’fall into a job.” McCree felt like every nerve was stretched to breaking point, like the warmth of his blood was seeping out into the icy air, but he felt remarkably at ease. Fight-or-flight was sweeping through him, his teeth and mind on-edge, but he felt his lips quirk a little as he relaxed into a battle-ready, tranquil stance. Not a single action escaped him, from her waist-length ponytail swinging slowly into equilibrium after each movement, to the idle stroke of her index finger against the fabric of her suit coat, to the deft way she stepped out of her wingtips as she switched her gaze to Shi.

 

Shi had not moved during their short conversation. He seemed to be staring straight ahead, at Amari, but it was impossible to tell under the soft white and green fabric of his helmet. His back was ramrod straight, his arms hanging at his sides. Out of the corner of his eye, McCree could see his hands slowly, ever-so-slowly, clenching and unclenching . Her smile widened, but she did not show her teeth this time. “And here is yet another I know! How kind of your mistress, not to leave me at the mercy of strangers. I doubt you paid me much heed, however. You had far more than me to worry about, _petit piaf_.” Shi only bowed, the jerky motion at odds with everything McCree had observed of him, and did not reply.

 

“Take our esteemed guest to the bath.” Amari’s voice was heavy with reluctant hospitality. McCree made momentary eye contact with her when their guest did not deign to turn to face her. She raised her eyebrow at him with haughty disdain. “I believe you boys have my largest bath under your care, do you not? If that is, in any way, disagreeable-”

 

“Oh, I think not, my dear,” their guest cut smoothly in, Amari’s lips twitching into a pressed thin line at the words _my dear_ before she gestured at McCree to begone. McCree dipped his head in a perfect, unharried bow before he looked uncertainly at Shi. He made no move. McCree bit his bottom lip as lightly and inconspicuously as possible before he nodded at their guest, turned, and walked towards the entrance of the red section. He heard the soft tread of their guest just behind him, but he could not tell if Shi also followed.

 

Oppressive silence greeted them as they made their way towards the tub. The crowds of customers and staff had disappeared. Tendrils of steam curled into the air above the abandoned, still pools of hot bathwater. It gathered into a great cloud above them, partially obscuring the walkway high above and descending like a low cloudbank approaching a mountain meadow. The scent of herbs and sulfur hung briefly in the air before the wedge of cold air following just behind him swept it away like ocean waves before the prow of a ship. The cold air held only the smell of frost, of ice crystals carried on a strong wind. Every once in a while, a stray current of air could outpace McCree’s feet as it was buffeted to the side by the cold draught, carrying a bank of mist past his knees.

 

He was loathe to have the guest at his back. He felt like he had a knifepoint between his shoulder blades and was being led to some dark corner beyond help or witness. He had been forced to walk that way before (on both sides of the knife, in fact, during his Blackwatch days) but he had never felt completely helpless in those situations, and remarkably he did not feel helpless now, though he could hardly explain why. It felt, for all the world, like he was in a silent, slow-motion gunfight, despite having no weapon besides his own strength and wits. She held the high ground at the moment, but he was good enough and lucky enough to know the high ground was merely one advantage among many. What advantage he could find in this strange battle, he couldn’t say, but he was searching for any as desperately and meticulously as he ever had, and he could only hope, as he had ever done, that luck and skill would carry him through.

 

He came to a strange realization as they arrived at the entrance to the big tub. He knew this whole song and dance, and the familiarity washed over him. He could feel the danger in his bones. His heart thudded indelicately in his chest, ready for the slightest indication to kick into high-gear. Sweat bloomed on his forehead, though his gunhand was completely dry. He was more comfortable in his skin than he had been since he entered that damned tunnel.

 

Well, except for right after the riceballs, asserted some part of his thoughts, halfway up from the back.

 

“Here we are, ma’am,” he said, turning with a half-smile. The knifepoint between his shoulder blades moved to above his heart. “We have a deluxe herbal soak already waitin’. If you would prefer somethin’ else, though-?”

 

The guest shook her head, looking over the room with a disinterested air. “ _Non_ , that should be sufficient.” She paused, placing her hands on the lapels of her coat, before her yellow eyes swept over to him with a sly slant. “I will not ask for anything too decadent while I am here. I will disrobe and enter the bath. Afterwards, you will stand near and keep me company with your pleasant conversation. Our mutual friend will not be joining us, I fear.” Indeed, Shi was nowhere to be seen, the hall empty at the guest’s back. McCree could hardly keep his dismay from showing. She tilted her head back slightly and let her teeth show in a lazy grin. “You are alone with me once again.” McCree flinched, visibly, the words cutting at him more than they should have, and her grin grew. “No peeking, please,” she admonished almost playfully as she glided past him into the room. He nodded a bit numbly as his mind reeled for a moment at the lack of backup.

 

It only lasted a moment, though. He drew himself up straight and took a couple of steps forward and away from the entrance to the bath, blocking most of the interior behind the thin partition. He could hear the faint rustling of cloth as it ghosted against the floor and the splattering water in the footbath.

 

The respite from her presence meant the humid warmth was back, and he allowed it to seep into his skin, rubbing his flesh hand against his left bicep to take away the chill. Unfortunately, the respite also allowed him to worry intensely about several things. He was terrified she would ask for--assistance--at any moment, and he wasn’t at all confident he could provide it. He couldn’t remember if there was a bucket in there for her to use to bathe properly before entering the bath, he didn’t know where to find towels for when she was done, and then there was the sludge still coating the sides of the interior of the tub. The water was a murky, non-transparent green, but how would it feel beneath her feet? Why hadn’t he insisted on another tub?

 

He combed his fingers through his hair, looking up worriedly at the still-descending cloudbank, ears straining for every sound of movement.

 

Despite his own troubles, he was actually somewhat relieved Shi had managed to escape. He hadn’t looked good at the entrance. His mask was impassive as ever, but he had seemed petrified, his good humor evaporated, the quiet confidence with which he had addressed Amari completely gone. As much help as he could have been, McCree knew how forcing an already terrified person into an ever-higher realm of fear could backfire. How it could backfire, in this strange situation where seemingly all that was at stake was a simple bath, he didn’t know, but he could live without knowing.

 

Worrying and thinking, he was quite unprepared when the darkness fell.

 

It didn’t fall from above; it cascaded over him from behind like a rolling bank of fog off an unseen bay. He spun around, but in an instant he was immersed and the world faded almost to nothing. The lamps set atop the partitions lining the hall were now only barely visible. He could see only the two closest to him, a pair of grey-violet will-o’-the-wisps on either side of the entrance to the tub, two sentinels on either side of oblivion.

 

He was breathing heavily, his eyes straining as they adjusted. It was definitely fog; he could feel it condense on his skin and in his mouth and nose. It brought with it a dense cold that settled over him like a towel dipped in icewater. Both invoked memories of fog on the Scottish moors, mists on the Siberian plains, cloudbanks on the slopes of the Sierra Madre, and a dozen other places scattered across the years where visibility was low and mortality was high. As the condensation settled on his skin and in his lungs, he could dimly discern another element contained within it, something that was more a taste than a smell, more a feeling than a taste.

 

Something venomous.

 

Something deadly.

 

“Come, cowboy.” The purring voice came from nowhere and thus, everywhere. “My modesty is secure. Come and keep me company.”

 

McCree swallowed. He edged uncertainly towards the nearest will-o’-the-wisp, his eyes trying to focus on its nebulous form. He reached out to the partition on which it was perched, feeling like a blind man lost in a maze full of traps. He tried to scan the purple-black nothingness that opened beyond the entrance. The tub was no more than two or three meters away, but he might as well have been at the edge of a gorge.

 

He felt his confidence slip a little at the sight, or lack thereof. He readjusted his grip on the partition; it was flimsy but solid under his fingers, and it steadied him. He called into the void, trying to speak with the same easygoing tone as before. “Everythin’ alrigh’? Can I get you anythin’?”

 

A soft laugh answered him, muffled by the fog so that it seemed to come to him across a great distance, an unseen figure on the other side of the gorge. “Nothing but conversation.” There was a sound of rippling, dripping liquid, as distant as the laugh.

 

Conversation. She wanted conversation, at a time like this. McCree suppressed a weary chuckle at the absurdity of it all while he wracked his brain for a topic. Everything seemed either too light or too heavy for the circumstances. Finally he ground out, “I’m plum out of words, ma’am. What do you wanna talk abou’?”

 

There was silence for many quickened beats of his heart. Then out of the gloom, “I speak as though we have met.” The purr was gone. The voice was now merely conversational. The sound of water sloshing slightly underlined each word. “It must be strange to you, human. Your perception, your memory is limited in some respects. You do not know me at all.”

 

“Not by sight, ma’am.” McCree couldn’t help a note of doubt from coloring his reply.

 

“No, you would not.”

 

Silence for a few beats more, too oppressive to allow.

 

“But I--I do recognize somethin’.” McCree ran his hand across his face, the metal cold yet still warmer than the air and fog. “So you were there? Every time?”

 

“Now, now, cowboy. Was it every time? I will be very offended if you are mistaking me for someone else.” McCree frowned at that, brows knitted together. If it hadn’t been every time--

 

He took a deep breath through his nose, then through his mouth, testing the air, despite his misgivings earlier, trying to jog his memory with smell and taste. What was she talking about? He knew this feeling, from dozens of fights, dozens of near-misses, from Deadlock to Blackwatch. Not so much with Overwatch yet, but give it time. He knew this road, from far fewer encounters, sure, but enough. What about now, what about _her_ , was supposed to help him narrow it down?

 

Why did it matter?

 

“I can hear the wheels turning from here. Do you need a hint?”

 

“Why?” The question pushed out from between his lips before he could prevent it, his hand stopping halfway to his mouth in a belated attempt to stifle it.

 

A soft sound, derisive. “Think of it as-” A moment of consideration, plain even through the fog and darkness. “-a memory exercise, my dear cowboy. As I said, you are limited, but one can learn to remember. You have so much to remember, you know, while you are here.”

 

That brought him up short. “What-how-” A laugh interrupted him, followed by more sloshing water.

 

“While you think, I’m afraid the bath has gone lukewarm. Would you mind?”

 

McCree stared into the darkness, feeling the gorge open before him.

 

The shaky hand on his shoulder pushed him over the precipice.

 

He whipped around, swinging a sharp metallic elbow at his assailant while simultaneously trying to use the momentum to throw himself back out into the hall. He gave half a grunt when his flesh upper arm thudded into something hard that deflected his elbow upwards, but it was interrupted by the steely grip under his shoulders that stopped his spin cold. They stumbled backward and fell. He let himself fall, hoping to land directly on top of his assailant and wind him, but he was twisted to the side at the last moment, the impact jarring his ribcage. He struggled as another arm wrapped around him before his assailant hissed in his ear. “Mac! Mac! It’s Shi! It’s just me!”

 

McCree instantly relaxed as anger and relief mixed in his chest. “Goddamn. God _damn_. A warning, jus’ a little warning next time, alrigh’, ninja? Goddamn.” He could feel the arms wrapped around him loosen, but he could feel them trembling. “You ok?”

 

Shi didn’t answer, he merely withdrew and got to his feet, silent. McCree rolled onto his back, looking up at him. He looked truly ghostlike in the fog, the green ellipse and patterns faded nearly to black, the white fabric glowing weakly in the feeble illumination. Even now he could see his gloved hands shake slightly, as though he was straining to keep them still but failing. He couldn’t hide the wince when their guest called out, “Aha, has our friend rejoined us?”

 

Shi took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders back. “Y-yes, ma’am. Please excuse me, I had to run an errand to ensure your best comfort.”

 

“Indeed? How industrious of you, and clever, too, since it took you away for so long.”

 

Shi clenched his fists at those words and glanced at McCree. “My apologies,” he murmured, as much to McCree as to their guest. McCree nodded back, reaching out for a hand up. Shi’s grip was not as sure as earlier in the day. Once McCree was on his feet, he clasped Shi’s shoulder with his flesh hand.

 

“I’m doin’ ok, so far,” he whispered. Shi turned his head away, not meeting McCree’s gaze. “All I really need is some direction. If you stay out here and jus’ tell me what t’do-”

 

“No.” The word was soft, ashamed. “No. I can do this, I’m just-”

 

“You’re scared stiff, partner. I’m not goin’ t’make you go in there if you don’ want to.”

 

Shi laughed a little, hollowly. “Are you sure you’re human? You put dragons to shame.” There was an edge to his voice, past the fear and the shame. McCree couldn’t place it, but there was no time to.

 

“This ain’ my first rodeo, strangely enough. It ain’ even my twelfth. I know this--I know _her_ , somehow. Can’t rightly explain it, but if you can’ face her, I understand. I really do.” He released Shi’s shoulder and turned back to the entrance. “The bath’s cold, so all I gotta do is drain it and refill it, right? Not too hard.”

 

He didn’t heard the footsteps, but Shi was at his side. “The cold is from her,” he said quietly. “It’ll be best if we keep a constant flow. The drain has a setting that lets the water out as fast as it comes in. I’ll stay here and put the drain on the right setting, you go find the supervisor and get a new tag. Last time I saw him, he was heading somewhere upstairs. I’ll be fine while you’re g-gone.” The slight stammer on the last word was so uncharacteristic that McCree almost hugged the man to him. Instead, he began untying the ribbon around his waist. Shi looked at him and tilted his head. “What are you doing?”

 

The tags clicked against each other as the ribbon loosened and they fell out from under his tunic. He caught them in one hand, raising them into Shi’s view. “No need t’leave you all alone, partner.”

 

Shi huffed and reached into his own tunic, withdrawing a tag of his own. “I’m trying to get you out of here, you fool.”

 

“Can’ get rid of me that easy. You get the drain, I’ll get the panel.” With a team plan and backup, McCree felt his confidence rising once more, and he stepped down and into the room. He turned back, one eyebrow raised, when Shi cleared his throat quietly.

 

“I--spoke with Lin. He knows the situation. There’s nobody else using the baths, so he’ll know it’s us when the call comes for more water.”

 

McCree nodded and turned away. He used the lip of the pit more than the dull light from the lamp to make his way to the other side of the entrance where he caught onto the thin partition once more. He followed it slowly, walking as quietly as possible. He fought the urge to look over his shoulder and watch the lamp vanish in the fog. Ahead of him there was only a void only a couple of shades lighter than black.

 

“Excuse the delay, ma’am.” Shi’s voice was falsely light, but it did sound much stronger nonetheless. “I believe you will be more comfortable if we set up a constant stream; that way, the water won’t get a chance to cool down. Is that agreeable?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Please mind the drain in the bottom and center of the tub. The suction can be quite strong.”

 

Rippling water was the only answer as McCree reached a corner, the flimsy partition giving way to stout, sweet-smelling wood paneling, a welcome change from the venomous taint in the fog. He kept his right hand on it, fingers trailing across the edges of the panels, searching for the minuscule notch that would open the panel.

 

More than once, he stopped short when something seemed to move across his field of vision, off to his left in the direction of the tub. He stared into the purple-black, trying to track the movement. At first he thought it was slightly thicker wisps of fog, or perhaps floaters in his eyes made visible by the uniform purple-black, but they seemed to be coming from only one direction, the direction of the tub. He kept moving, scanning the wall with his fingers, but he couldn’t help squinting until his eyes hurt from the strain of fixing on the tenuous shapes that seemed almost on the point of forming before fading away. They looked half like steam boiling off the top of a hot spring and half like human figures contorting in grotesque shapes before collapsing into nothing.

 

McCree shook himself, chiding himself for his overactive imagination. His fingers soon slid over the notch of the hidden panel, and he hooked a nail into it and swung it open, feeling for and choosing a tag at random to insert into the slot. A click, and the tag was gone. He left the panel open in case they needed to find it again and began to make his way back to the entrance to wait for Shi. As the wall panels creaked somewhere above his head, however, he belatedly realized that someone would need to pull the rope to allow the water down the trough. Shi was probably waiting for him to do just that before allowing the tub to drain.

 

He cursed internally, looking out into the dark.

 

He rushed a little along the wall to position the trough directly above while it was still swinging out of the wall and making noise. Once he was reasonably sure he was underneath he faced toward the tub, unconsciously pressing his back into the wall, welcoming its solid presence and protection. Ahead was nothing, virtually nothing, except the slight, barely-there, shadowy movement, indistinct enough for him to doubt his own eyes, persistent enough to set him on edge. “Um, alrigh’ ma’am, I’m comin’ to turn on the water now, if tha’s ok.” He listened for a reply, if only to get his bearings, but none came. He felt a bit of frustration rise at that, but he stepped away from the wall all the same, trying to walk a straight line in the dark and feeling for the edge of the tub with his feet.

 

He knew something was terribly wrong after only three steps.

 

The fog pressed closer, pressing drops of condensation against his skin. He could feel it dropping off the bedraggled strands of hair laying limply over his ears and neck, carving icy trails downwards. The element of venom that hung in the mist that before was barely a feeling strengthened until it was only barely not a scent, pressing on the edge of perception in McCree’s nose and mouth. His eyes began to burn as though an ethanol aerosol had been released in his face. And somewhere, far off, on the edge of hearing, he could hear voices punctuated with thunder.

 

Was it thunder? Was it _only_ thunder? Mixed in were sharp cracks, booms, the rumble of stone grinding against stone.

 

It sounded like a battle.

 

He wanted to pause. He wanted to take a deep breath, maybe two, to calm himself. But the air wasn’t trustworthy.

 

He kept going, ignoring the flash of pain when he stubbed his toe against the edge of the tub, stepping up, twisting his feet to the sides to prevent them from slipping from the fine sheen of water droplets deposited by the fog on the cold ceramic surface. He breathed as shallowly as he could, not willing to take in the air that was now clearly harboring something terrible. He waved his arms blindly in front of him, grasping for the rope he knew should come into reach at any moment.

 

He knocked it away from him, and it swung back to smack him in the face. He caught hold of it and gave it a sharp pull. Above and behind him, the mechanism clicked and water rushed in a loud torrent down and splashed into the pool somewhere ahead of him.

 

When the incoming water poured into the pool, it released a great cloud that was remarkably, impossibly darker than the darkness, swallowing up the purple-black. It rose above McCree like the column of a volcanic eruption before it seemed almost to collapse under its own weight, crashing down and smothering reality itself.

 

He fell.

 

_“McCree! McCree! Hold on, we got you! Jesus, it’s bad-”_

 

 _“Get out._ ¡Fuera! _No Deadlock-”_

 

_“-dig it out, dig it out!”_

 

_“-never come back to this house-”_

 

 _“¿Cómo te atreves? ¿Cómo, mij-no, ya no eres mi hijo. Get out._ ¡Fuera! _No-_ ”

 

_“No, you’re not supposed to dig out a bullet, he might bleed out, just press-”_

_“It’s not a bullet, dammit! Look! The flesh is necrotizing!”_

_“¡Jo_ der! _”_

 

_“¡No vuelvas! ¡Nunca! ¿Me oyes? Ésta ya no es tu casa, ya yo no soy tu-”_

 

_“Shit, McCree? You don’t look so good, did you get hit? Check your back-”_

 

_“¿Por qué vuelves tan tarde, mijo? ¿Mijo? Quieto. Mírame. ¿Dónde estabas?”_

_“Con los chicos.”_

_“¿Cuáles chicos? No los Deadlock, ¿verdad? Mijo. Mírame a los ojos.”_

 

_“We’ve got to get him back to base, I haven’t got any more.”_

_“Is there time? Look at his hand, the fingers are already turning black.”_

_“I don’t know.”_

 

_“Tranquilo, vaquero.”_

_“Abre los ojos.”_

_“Lo lamento.”_

 

_“¡No vuelvas!”_

_“Ma-!”_

_“¡Cállate!”_

_“¡Mamá!”_

 

McCree came to himself with a sharp gasp. He was on his side, halfway curled into the fetal position. Water was pouring past him, piling against his back, tugging his legs and head back and forth as it rounded past him, cold as death, smelling of a bizarre combination of spring herbs, ice, and venom.

 

He lethargically rolled onto all fours, shaking his head, feeling his hair whip into his closed eyelids. Fingers and toes, hand and feet, all were numb. His upper arm throbbed where it met the freezing metal of his prosthetic. He crawled through the torrent, instinctively following the current before his head bumped into a wall, harder than he expected, forcing his eyes open. He regarded the dancing points of light in his vision with detached bemusement before he shook his head again and sat up, rubbing his right hand on the stub of his arm, feeling chills and shivers wrack him.

 

The darkness was almost absolute, but once the phantom lights faded in his eyes, he spied a pair of will-ó-the-wisps on his right. He stood, shakily, his feet protesting at the weight and shooting daggers up and down his legs. He kept his shoulder pressed to the wall as he staggered forward.

 

He found Shi by tripping over him, falling across his splayed legs. It was too dark to recognize him; he knew him only by the cold, stretched fabric over his arms as McCree blindly ran his hands over the prone form. Shi seemed to have been face up, but the water was deep enough for it not to matter.

 

McCree wrapped chilled, clumsy fingers around the fabric of his helmet, feeling the thin rods of its frame snapping as he wrenched it away and threw it to the side. He pulled himself to his feet, dragging Shi up, metal arm under his armpit and pressing his flesh hand to his neck, looking for a pulse. It was unnecessary; as soon as he touched Shi’s bare skin, he heard him gasp out, “ _Anija! Dame! Yada! Onegai, niisan! Onegai!_ ”

 

McCree dragged him towards the lamps. He tripped again on the lip of the pit, falling into the hall with a pained grunt that was mirrored by Shi. He awkwardly dragged Shi a little further out, clear of the water, before he collapsed, shivering, with a groan. Here, away from the torrent, the smell of venom was more tolerable. He gulped down air, feeling his chest expand and contract painfully. He sat up with a jerk and drew his legs to his chest, rubbing his feet and toes, trying to rub warmth and life back into them. Then a thought occurred to him.

 

He rose, and stumbled back to the entrance, gripping the partition again. “Ma’am? _Ma’am?_ You alrigh’? What’s goin’ on in there?” He strained his eyes and ears, but there was no answer. He drummed stiff fingers against the partition, debating within himself. What had happened, and how much had to do with her? Did she need help? Was she doing this on purpose, trying to ensnare them in some kind of trap? Should he go get help? He looked back at Shi, pale in the dark, biting his bottom lip. He should probably go get help, for Shi if for nothing else. Mind made up, he was moving away from the partition when he heard, just barely discernible above the gushing and swirling water, a small gasp.

 

Aw, hell. If that didn’t sound like a person who couldn’t quite raise their head above the water to breathe-

 

He took two deep breaths, fortifying himself with cleaner air, then he barrelled back into the darkness towards the tub, splashing noisily through the water. He let him himself fall forward when his feet found the edge of the tub, too numb to register any pain. He scrambled up the side of the tub like an insect, forcing his limbs through the heavy deluge of water that flowed thickly over the rim of the tub and threatened to drag him back down. His blindly reaching hands found the rim, and he braced his feet against the tier as he swept his arms through the water, searching for anything of solid. He coughed as blacker-than-black clouds rose into his face- _Deadlock, lamento, necrotizing_ \- as he tried to shuffle to his right, intending to make a full circuit around the rim. Surely the current would drag anyone towards the rim-drowning people couldn’t move on their own power, they could only instinctively try to remain afloat until-

 

His hand brushed against something and fingers immediately felt encased in ice. Nevertheless, he forced his them to move, dove forward as he grasped at something that felt like an arm, maybe a leg, and pulled.

 

He could feel her head loll forward onto his forearm, her hair bunching and draping over his hand. He grabbed her with his other hand and pulled back, nearly falling backward before she caught on the rim at the waist. Everywhere his skin touched hers was agony. He could easily imagine ice crystals forming in his flesh, in his blood, puncturing cells and arteries and nerves, sharp edges cutting like glass, but he struggled to gather her into his arms, trying to lift her up and over the rim. She fell forward, her head over his shoulder, and a faint glimmer caught his eye, the only thing he could see.

 

On her back, crisscrossed with wet ropes of hair and shining softly in the dark like airglow, rising from her purple-blue skin, was a scarified design, an elongated, fractal spider. Its abdomen was a single large, permanent, swollen welt placed over her spine. It was the source of the glow, blood-red and harsh against his eyes despite its wan luminescence.

 

_Now, now, cowboy._

_It’s not a bullet, dammit!_

_Was it every time?_

_-did you get hit? Check your back-_

_Think of it as-_

_Look! The flesh is necrotizing!_

_-a memory exercise._

_-dig it out, dig it out!_

 

“ _Raei albaqar!_ ” A hand closed on his flesh wrist, searing hot. “What are you doing? What happened?”

 

Amari’s voice was angry, angrier even then the night he’d signed his contract, but McCree didn’t shrink from her touch. She was right next to him, but he still couldn’t see her. He leaned towards her voice, almost shouting. “A knife!”

 

“ _What?_ ”

 

“Or a scalpel, or something! She’s got something in her back! It’s-I dunno, it’s not exactly killin’ her, but-”

 

The hand tightened. “That would explain a few things,” Amari murmured. The hand disappeared. “You cut. I will hold her steady, _raei albaqar_.” McCree grimaced at the thought of him using the knife, but his grip was beginning to weaken. There was no time to argue. He tried to lift her out. “No! Keep her in the water,” Amari admonished, “If more venom comes out, it will be better that it goes in the water. Hand her to me.” McCree shifted her in his grip and held her out towards Amari’s voice. He felt her take their guest’s weight, Amari letting a breath hiss out between clenched teeth. “The knife! Take it!” He felt a handled object thrust into his shaking palm, his fingers closing around it slowly and painfully through the cold. He felt it with his metal hand, giving it a once-over. It was small and short, like a letter opener or a stiletto, with a blade only a few centimeters long tapering to a pin-like point.

 

He could still see the scarified design glowly dimly. Amari seemed to have more or less perched their guest on the rim of the tub. The hair that had obscured the shape of the spider had been brushed away. The red abdomen pulsed slowly, like a tiny heart.

 

McCree took a breath- _no vuelvas_ -and leaned over the design. He maneuvered the knife by the tiny pinpricks of light reflected in its blade. “Here I go,” he warned.

 

“Get on with it!”

 

He braced himself as he sliced into the skin, waiting for a scream or a struggle that never came. The welt opened up reluctantly, the light seeming almost to retreat deeper within. Oddly, no blood seeped out. McCree bit his bottom lip, disproportionately repulsed by the lack of blood, but he shook it off and cut further in. He’d only done this four times in his life, twice to drain swelling that was restricting blood flow to an appendage, once to cut out a grain of sand that had gotten stuck in a teammate’s cornea, and once to drain an infected lesion when medical help was days away. Nothing like this, though.

 

The tip of the knife clicked against something solid. He froze. He was cutting directly over her spine; there wasn’t much room for error. But through the incision a dot of blood-red light poked through. There was definitely something in there, an object of some kind. He tried to dig it out with as few cuts as possible. As it emerged, the glow became almost searing, leaving an afterimage in McCree’s sight, forcing him avert his direct gaze and look at sideways, switching angles with his eyes and head every couple of seconds so he could see what he was doing.

 

Finally, with a light flick with the blade, it fell out. McCree had a moment to see the three-pronged head of a dart tumble down her back before it dropped with a soft _plink!_ into the bathwater.

 

The world exploded with light.

 

McCree tried to yell, to scream, really. He tried to jump back, to fall backward if that was all he could manage, but something was holding him in place--it felt almost like simple paralysis, like he couldn’t move, except he didn’t crumple in place. For an instant, his vision was simply a field of white, as searing as the red glow of the dart head. It soon faded, in brilliance if not in color, and as it faded, a figure resolved out of the glare and stepped forward. Her hair was black as night, waist-length, caught up once more in a high ponytail. Her skin was tanned and dark, her lips a healthy pink, her eyes a striking cherrywood brown. She was simply dressed, a baggy long-sleeved shirt, trousers, and black boots. A rifle hung from a strap over one shoulder. She was no less dangerous, but she radiated with warmth.

 

“ _La chasseuse revient!_ ” she exclaimed, laughing.

 

Everything faded to black.

 

McCree blinked. A drop of water broke the silence.

 

He was lying on his back, his legs stretched out, his arms by his sides. His limbs were pleasantly warm, his clothes dry. A few strands of hair obscured his view of the high ceiling. The bathhouse seemed almost achingly bright, though the illumination was merely normal.

 

He sat up, leveraging himself on his elbows, groaning.

 

He was caught off guard by the cheering that erupted, above and surrounding him. He was in the hall outside the big tub. Crowded by the handrails of the hallways and balconies that overlooked the baths were seemingly hundreds of spirits, waving their arms, tentacles, and assorted appendages, jumping up and down, yelling and shouting. It sounded like being at a football match, except some of the voices sounded like deep birdsong, gurgling, and low droning. He could even see the pig man from the day before, standing in the middle of a small void in the crowd, drumming on the handrail in front of him with two enormous fists, making it visibly vibrate even from McCree’s vantage point far below.

 

Amari stepped into view from behind him. She looked the same as ever, grey forelock trailing across her cheekbone, dark eye locked on his own, a slim eyebrow raised, a calculating grimace twisting her mouth.

 

They looked at each other silently for a moment, the noise of the crowd high above washing over them like the tide, before she spoke at last. “Well, _raei albaqar_ , you’ve certainly earned your keep for today.” McCree didn’t know how to respond, but he was spared the necessity. “She hasn’t felt right in all the time I’ve known her, and wouldn’t you know it? She wasn’t an emissary at all, but a goddess. A good thing she knew you, and that you knew her.” She gestured at the floor around McCree’s legs. “She appears to be quite thankful for the service.”

 

McCree meant only to glance, unwilling to not keep Amari in his sights, but the dozens of rubies scattered all around the floor startled him. They were all unfinished, blocky and rugged, ranging in size from a fingernail to chicken’s egg, but each one was perfectly clear and perfectly blood-red, sending splays of red-yellow patterns across the floor when the light from the lamps caught them just right. He bit his lip, reminded of the dart head he had dug out of her back. Amart chuckled, low and humorless. “She assured me its resemblance to her payment is merely coincidence.”

 

“Wha-” he stopped himself, still unwilling to speak to her, keeping his eyes on the ruby closest to him, a multifaceted cylinder next to his ankle. She seemed to have gotten the gist, despite his reluctance.

 

“Someone got her. Who knows who it could be, to catch a goddess of the hunt unawares and from behind, but they got her. It was a nice touch to make it visible only to someone she had envenomated. Something for me to keep in mind, to be sure.” He looked up at that, eyes narrowing. She smirked back, completely at ease. Then she turned away, and the rubies scattered about fidgeted, then skittered across the floor to form an orderly line behind her as she walked away, tapping across the wood paneling like pebbles falling into a ravine. “At any rate, her payment more than made up for the business she drove away. You and Shi will not be good to work for the rest of the night; go rest. You can clean up tomorrow.” And she disappeared beyond the entrance to the baths, the tapping of the rubies fading away.

 

McCree stared after her, a flush of anger spreading across his face. The shouts of the crowd had faded into a murmur of dozens of conversations as individual spirits moved away from the handrails, talking loudly amongst themselves. He looked into the big tub’s room and scowled. Everything below knee-level was stained various shades of purple, including the entire floor and exterior of the rub. He couldn’t imagine how long it would take to scrub it all clean. A few frogs and slugs appeared at the entrance, cautiously walking in and staring curiously at him. Not feeling up for conversation, he tried to get to his feet, groaning as he stretched upwards and the joints in his back and arms popped one-by-one. He frowned, raising a hand to his side, just above the ribbon tied around his waist. Something was in his tunic, caught by the ribbon. Several somethings, smaller and rounder than the tags he’d been carrying there earlier.

 

Before he could investigate, a soft noise drew his attention. “Shi!” He was sitting cross-legged behind McCree. It took a moment for McCree to register that his helmet was still off. Shi held it in his hands, the cloth shaped into a pointy, asymmetrical mess by the broken frame within. His clothes, tunic, pants, gloves, and stockings, were as dry as McCree’s. And he was looking at McCree with a solemn gaze.

 

He was handsome. His ears were mismatched, random chunks missing from the shells, along with a piece of his nose. The largest white streak of a scar replaced an eyebrow, his lips were split and resplit, one cheek was noticeably translucent, but the high cheekbones, the strong jaw, the intelligent green eyes shined through from beneath the rest of the white slashes and red burn scars.

 

McCree walked forward, arm outstretched to help him up. He saw a flash of surprise swoop over Shi’s face. Over his lack of hesitation? Impossible to tell.

 

McCree could feel the muscles in his upper back and arms protest at every movement as the last vestiges of adrenaline drained away, and exhaustion settled into his legs. “C’mon. Let’s get something to eat,” he said. Shi nodded slowly. He took his hand hesitantly, and McCree groaned as he pulled him to his feet. They walked back to the staging area in a silence that felt companionable to McCree. Frogs and slugs were pouring in the opposite direction, loud voices dropping to whispers when they caught sight of them. It seemed like all of them had fled downstairs when their guest-the goddess-had arrived. Their supervisor was there, waving people along, uncharacteristically quiet. He visibly started when McCree caught his eye and hastily turned away. McCree shook his head. There’s gratitude for you. Unless, he suddenly thought, he’d caught sight of Shi, instead--

 

McCree snuck a look at Shi. He was staring straight ahead and down, not meeting anyone’s gaze. And now that he was looking, he could see that their coworkers were indeed reacting to his face with disgust and fear, pointedly looking away when they caught a glimpse of his scars. Not unlike how they had been treating McCree.

 

He understood the need for the helmet now.

 

They descended the six flights of stairs down to the dormitory level. When they left the shaft, the crowd thinned until they were, once again, walking alone down the floor-to-ceiling window-lined hallway. The rain appeared to have stopped, but it was so dark out that even the dimly lit hallway was reflected in the windows in an opaque mirror, obscuring the floodplain beyond.

 

They turned the corner, the sliding doors to their dormitory shut, but allowing a scarce amount of light through the thin paper. Shi paused for a second, and McCree raised an eyebrow as he stopped to look at him. He felt the corners of his mouth try to twitch into a smile. It was just so strange to see expressions on Shi’s face! Even if at the moment he seemed pained. His eyes were closed, his ragged lips pursed tightly. He opened his eyes and glanced at McCree. He started, then smiled abashedly. “I keep forgetting,” he said softly. “You can see me now.”

 

McCree grinned a little. “I was wonderin’ what was goin’ on under there.” The grin disappeared under the weight of the memory of McCree dragging the helmet off to check for Shi’s pulse, the snapping rods of the frame echoing in his mind. “I’m sorry.” Shi’s eyes widened slightly at McCree’s serious tone. He awkwardly combed his metal hand through his hair, wondering how to broach the topic of what had just happened. “I dunno if you remember. You seemed to be passed out on the floor, in the water. I had the notion you’d drowned. I wasn’ careful when I was takin’ your mask off.” His shoulders slumped as he looked at the mass of cloth and broken sticks in Shi’s hand. “I guess I broke it good, huh?”

 

Shi’s mouth opened and closed before he shook his head with a dry chuckle. He raised the ruined helmet, inspecting it. “It’s just the frame. Since we seem to be off early again tonight, I should be able to repair it without too much trouble.” He looked back at McCree, lips pursed again. “Stay here. I’ll go get some food.”

 

“Well hey, Shi, you’re always gettin’ the food. I don’ even know where the kitchens are, yet. I can get my own.”

 

Shi let out a breath. “Look, Mac-” he began, then seemed to check himself. He put an hand on McCree’s shoulder, the grip strong, as he looked him straight in the eye, expression serious. “Let me do this for you. You carried us through all that, just now. I was dead weight.” McCree made a sound of protest, but Shi cut it off with a gentle shake of his shoulder. “I’m serious. I’ll get the food. Stay here.” He released McCree’s shoulder and strode away, footsteps whisper quiet.

 

McCree watched him go until he turned a corner far down the hallway. He regarded the closed doors of the dormitory, but despite being tired as hell he could feel hunger begin to claw at the inside of his torso. If he laid himself down now, he’d probably fall asleep immediately and miss out on--dinner? Lunch? What time was it? When he thought through events-keeping his revision light, trying not to think too deeply about it, not yet-he could only account for two, maybe three hours since waking up. He may have been unconscious a little longer. That strange whatever-it-was, when he’d seen the--goddess--could have been a dream or a hallucination.

 

McCree turned towards the windows, trying to see any hint of the moon to help him estimate the time. The reflected glare prevented him from seeing anything. He saw that the windows were set into sliding panels, so he stepped up to one and opened it with a quiet rattle. Blackness answered his view, and he felt a momentary sense of intense dread, remembering the darkness that had swallowed him up upstairs, but it was immediately dispelled by a light breeze, heavy with the smell of rain and something else McCree couldn’t identify, cold, but a refreshing, invigorating cold.

 

A plain wooden handrail was set beyond the windows. If he opened another sliding panel, he could effectively turn the hallway into a sort of balcony. He did just that, letting the breeze sweep out the warm air from the hallway. He wanted to lean on the rail, but it was just slightly too low to be comfortable for his tall frame. There was enough space between posts for him to dangle his legs and bare feet over the edge, resting his arms on the crossbeam halfway down from the rail.

 

His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, further lessening the sense of _déjà vu_. He could barely see low cloudbanks, dark grey in the black sky. But they seemed to be breaking up already; he could see stars beginning to poke out through what must be breaks in the bank, and he could just make out the thin line of the horizon. If he was lucky, perhaps the moon would find a hole to shine through, too.

 

The sliding door of the dormitory rattled behind him. He turned his head to see Shi making for the light fixture within, turning it off with a soft _click_. Now the only light came from around the corner from the long hallway, just barely enough to see by. Shi lifted a plate and a jug from the floor as he walked to McCree’s side. The plate was piled high with some kind of pale white biscuits the size of a fist. “Dumplings,” Shi supplied. “I managed to swipe them. Enjoy.” He lay the plate at McCree’s side before shuffling a meter to the side and sitting cross-legged, facing out into the darkness as well. He made no move to eat, himself. He held the jug in his hands.

 

McCree frowned at that, but before he could say anything, his supposition came true and the moon broke through the clouds, slanting rays doing much to brighten the makeshift balcony. He could see Shi’s face clearly, now.

 

Guilt. Pain. Regret, perhaps? They were etched into every feature of his face, darkening his eyes and throwing the white scars, painted silver by the moon, into stark relief. McCree felt he knew where a portion of them was coming from, but not all.

 

 _Niisan_ . He didn’t know much Japanese, but he knew that word, at least. McCree let his mind go back, thinking on the moment the column of venom had collapsed on him. It had clearly knocked him off his feet, knocked him unconscious, maybe, but it had done more than that. It had dragged up memories, memories of close calls on the field. Three of them, it seemed. All had involved poison of one kind or another, injected with a ranged weapon. He unconsciously gripped his metal arm where it met the flesh stub. He closed his eyes. _Do you need a hint?_ He didn’t know if that was what she meant, but if so, it had been one hell of a hint. At least his intuition had been enough to do the rest.

 

But one memory stood out from the rest.

 

Mamá.

 

 _Niisan_.

 

He slid the plate towards Shi. It clinked against the edges of the flooring. Shi glanced at it with a grimace.

 

“You need t’eat, too.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Bull.”

 

“What?”

 

“I mean-look. I don’ blame you.” Shi’s eyes closed, involuntarily. McCree pushed ahead. “I really don’ blame you at all. She was--hell. She was terrifyin’, like Death Incarnate. One look and I felt like turnin’ tail and runnin’ for the hills.”

 

“But you didn’t.”

 

McCree paused before letting out a dry huff of a laugh. “No, I didn’. But I wasn’ kiddin’ when I said that wasn’ my first rodeo. I may not look it, but I’ve been through the wringer. A lot. Stakeouts. Gunfights. Full-blown battles. Hell, I’ve even had a bounty on my head. Wasn’ real, but tell the bounty hunters that. And I don’ rightly understand it even now, but apparently she was there, sometimes. Felt like we’d met before, anyway. Somehow.” McCree felt like he was dangerously close to rambling, and pulled it back. “Point is, I’ve been in a few scrapes, and I know how t’deal with ‘em. How many fights you been in? I’m willin’ t’bet you’re practically a civilian, ninja training or no.”

 

Shi bowed his head. A shadow hid his face. “Not too many. Just one that mattered.” His hand was trembling as it held fast around the neck of the jug. Liquid sloshed around inside, slapping the sides with a hollow sound.

 

McCree sighed and moved the plate a couple centimeters closer to him. “I share the food, you share the drink.”

 

A couple of moments passed before Shi let out a sigh of his own. He scootched over, still cross-legged, and reached for the plate, snagging a dumpling and biting into it. He took a swig from the jug. He passed it to McCree, who copied him move-for-move. The dumpling had a thick layer of cooked dough, but much like the riceballs there was a savory meat center. He couldn’t place it exactly; it was gamey, like duck or pheasant. The drink was strongly alcoholic, as he had suspected. He placed the jug next to the plate as they both chewed. He turned to face out again, and nearly choked.

 

The moonlight broadly expanded the panorama. The clouds had broken up and scattered, grey edges surrounding deep blue centers. Stars coldly burned between them, but the moon was alone in a great open space of clear black sky, full and heavy. And below, the moonlight shimmered and sparkled on the calm surface of an immense body of water that stretched from the base of the bathhouse and cliffs out to the horizon. The floodplain had completely disappeared beneath the waves. He could finally identify the scent that had accompanied the smell of rain: fresh water, like standing next to a lake.

 

With a rattling, scraping noise, a train ran smoothly into view, windows ablaze, seeming to skim lightly across the surface of the water. A yellow beam from a sole headlight lit the way ahead, although the tracks themselves could not be seen. McCree followed its progress past the bathhouse and out into the distance. He realized it was headed towards lights on the horizon; the unmistakable outline of a town or city, the first sign of civilization beyond the town in which the bathhouse was situated.

 

He had given no thought to how expansive this world might be, but as the waves crisscrossed far into the distance, as the train faded to a yellow point of light before vanishing completely, and as the city lights twinkled on the horizon, he suddenly felt very small, and very lost.

 

He longed to ask Shi about the far-off city, but he knew Shi would welcome any distraction, and distraction was exactly what McCree wanted to avoid. He only hoped Shi didn’t _need_ distraction. McCree was in no mood to give it.

 

The dumplings disappeared one by one, and the jug lightened considerably. McCree was washing down one last bite, the alcohol biting into his throat, when Shi cleared his throat self-consciously. He didn’t meet McCree’s eyes. “When-back there. Did you--remember things?”

 

McCree nodded, slowly. Shi didn’t say any more, prompting him to offer a little more. “Quite a few things, actually. Missions I’d been on, times when I’d been hit with poison.” He waited. Shi said nothing. “Actually helped me figure out what to do.” Silence from Shi. It stretched, uncomfortably. McCree felt a lump form in his throat. He had to force the words out. “Remembered my mamá, too.”

 

Shi drew a breath at that, short and sharp.

 

McCree continued. “I screwed up, big time. Got involved with a gang, real hardline criminals. Weapons, drugs, killin’ contracts, the works. Mamá warned me a hundred times where that road would end up, but I didn’ listen. One day she had enough. Told me to go, and if I came back, she’d turn me in. She’d protected me up til then, because I was her son. But after that day--” he drew a shuddering breath. “I wasn’ her son no more. I was Deadlock, and she wouldn’ have anythin’ to do with Deadlock scum.”

 

McCree surprised himself when he felt tears sting his eyes. He hadn’t thought of that day, of that fight in years, but now it felt close, a reopened wound. Like it hadn’t happened twenty-three years ago to McCree the boy, but yesterday, to McCree the man, cognizant of his stupidity, his hubris, his blind lust for excitement and blatant disregard for the lives he’d destroyed.

 

He scrubbed at his eyes before the tears could fall, smearing the moisture across the bridge of his nose, looking away from Shi. It took a few moments for him to find his voice again. “Dunno what any of that has t’do with poison and venom and goddesses,” he muttered.

 

He heard Shi shift. “There are many kinds of poison. Some are for the body. Others--”

 

This silence was expectant, sure to be short-lived. McCree almost couldn’t help holding his breath.

 

“I’d like to tell you a story.” Shi’s voice was strangely distant, like he was reciting something committed to memory. McCree nodded, a little uncertainly.

 

“Long ago, there lived two great dragons.”

 

McCree straightened, not looking at Shi, but over the water, into the sky.

 

“One was the dragon of the azure river, the other the dragon of the jade forest. Together, they upheld balance and harmony across the land. But the two dragons argued over who could better rule over their land. Their quarrel turned to violence and their struggle darkened the river with blood and struck the forest down into ruin. The azure dragon prevailed, striking down the jade dragon, who, mutilated in body and soul, fled into exile.”

 

The wind changed direction, rattling the windows slightly as it picked up.

 

“The jade dragon made his way as best as he could, but he knew little of the wide world. He stumbled from place to place, licking his wounds, plotting revenge for his disfigurement and disgrace. Rage consumed him, rage that he fed, imagining that it made him strong. In truth, it made him easy prey, easily found, easily led, easily entrapped, and the jade dragon fell once more.”

 

The wind picked up, whistling slightly as it tore across the corner of the building.

 

“Meanwhile, the azure dragon gloried in his victory, but only for a time. Soon he realized his solitude, and the sweetness of victory turned to ash. Discord engulfed the land that he had sought to govern alone, and he knew only bitterness and sorrow. Many voices cried out, ‘Oh dragon lord! Why are you so distraught? Why can you not bring order and harmony to your people?’

 

“He replied, ‘Seeking power, I killed my brother-’” McCree’s breath caught in his throat, “‘-but without him, I am lost. I have not peace within myself; I cannot bring it to others.’ Word spread of the dragons’ sad tale, and word soon came back, bringing news that the jade dragon was not dead. The azure dragon was overjoyed, yet humbled. He knelt upon the ground, and he felt he could clearly see the world around him for the first time. He set out at once to find his brother, to reunite with him and rebuild what they had once destroyed.

 

“But it was not to be.” Shi’s voice cracked, breaking the distant tone, and he retreated into silence.

 

McCree could supply the rest.

 

_It was to be an exchange of sorts._

_The contract. It can be nullified with an exchange equal to or greater than the value of the labor the servant provides._

_She steals them so that even if one were able to buy their freedom, they cannot because they are not the person to whom the contract refers._

_Not any longer._

 

The wind strengthened. The whistling dropped in pitch and became a howl.

 

-_-_-

 

He surged forward, twisting, flowing. In the dark, he had nothing but instinct to guide him. Instinct had led him astray before, but it remained an immovable foundation when everything else, sight, sound, and reason, had been stripped away. He let it have free reign, for the moment, reveling in the rare sensation of freedom. When he came close to his quarry, he would seize back control.

 

All too soon, he caught the scent he was looking for, felt the space narrow. Time to come to himself.

 

Han blinked owlishly, slipping through the surface of the water without so much as a ripple, eyeing the low, crudely constructed fence that rose just beyond the temporary shore. It was little more than thick boughs stacked one on top of another, held in place by pairs of posts every two meters or so.

 

The rain had been fortuitous, the reason for this hasty errand. It had been a long time since the water had been this high, so close to the border she had set. It was perfect cover. She would never see him coming, and, with a bit of luck, she would not see him go.

 

He slipped out of the water like an eel. He shed the water from his skin, clothes, and hair like a garment, leaving him completely dry. Dark eyes alight, scanning up and down the line of the fence, he lightly leapt over the low fence, crouching on the other side. He was in a narrow space. The fence behind him and on his right. The high wooden wall of an outbuilding on his left, slanting roof overshooting the wall to create a low-hanging eave that even now sheltered him from the cloudless, moonlit sky. Before him soft grass for many meters. The grass eventually gave way to high bushes and small trees. The wind drew their sweet and bitter scents over him. He breathed deep through his nose, searching for anything else. There was smoke, a slight whiff of a cooking fire, mixed with dough, rice, and spices. Nothing else.

 

He hugged the wall of the outbuilding. His quarry was inside, but there was only a single entrance. He crept forward, breathing slowly. The loudest noise was his hair and hair ribbon dragging along the weatherstained wood, a soft rustling song. He reached the corner of the building, and he stole a glance around, pursing his lips.

 

Across a wide space was the main house, crowned with a high thatched roof. A chimney set atop the fireguard that ran along the crest of the roof emitted a small stream of woodsmoke, the source of the scent of cooking. The two walls he could see were smooth and white with finished plaster, bearing only two small windows each, but each shone with the orange flicker of firelight. Nothing moved but the flicker.

 

Behind the main house he could see the other outbuilding in the complex. It was similar to the one he stood behind, completely unremarkable. It held nothing but foodstuffs, according to Amari’s information. He hoped she was right.

 

He scrutinized the entrance of the outbuilding that held his quarry, eyes narrowed. It was a simple wooden double door, but he could feel the spells that held the doors closed against weather and intruders. They were simple enough. Nobody wanted to strike dead an unwitting visitor who brushed up against the door out of curiosity. No, only the precious objects within would kill at a touch, once the “visitor’s” intentions became clear.

 

He dashed to the entrance, pressing his palms flat against the doors, his head twisted round to look at the main house over his shoulder. He kept a constant vigil, straining for any movement whatsoever, as his hands, physical and non-physical, worked to disentangle the spells that held the doors fast and the spells that would raise the alarm. There was only one of those that he could find, despite his practiced eye, a simple chime when the doors would open. That unsettled him. He probed further within the building, looking for unfriendly eyes, but finding none.

 

He would just have to work as quickly as possible.

 

He hissed softly and involuntarily when the door opened slightly with a creak. Quick as lightning, he slipped inside and closed the door behind him as securely as possible. His eyes adjusted to the dark instantly, and he raked his eyes over the neatly stacked and ordered crates of every size and the drawers set into the walls that were not unlike the drawers in Lin’s boiler room.

 

He sniffed, deeply, for the smell of gold, as he moved between crates. In the bathhouse, the smell was overpowering, sickening. Here, it was virtually nonexistent, deep beneath layers of must and mold. If it was here, it had been packed away long ago.

 

But not so securely that he could not find it. He smiled with grim satisfaction when a crate near the back of the building gave off the slight odor he was searching for. It was in a conveniently small box, on top of a small stack. He reached out for it, placing his hands on either side with a scant centimeter of space between his flesh and the box. He was close to death, but he had to be in order to tease out the delicate invisible threads that lay thickly across the top and sides. If a single one snapped--

 

He worked quickly, but the task demanded time and care. If he was a lesser creature (in body, at least, whispered the lesson hard learned), sweat would be breaking out, dripping down his forehead, his fingers slippery with moisture. But he was not. The only sign of strain and nerves were the infrequent pauses, head twisting suddenly to look over a shoulder, breath stilled, waiting for a sound to be real or imagined.

 

The moon had found a tiny hole somewhere in the roof or wall of the outbuilding, shooting a shaft of blue light to the ground at Han’s feet. It coursed lazily over one foot, than the other, the only indication of time besides a sporadic breath of wind sighing through the eaves of the outbuilding.

 

He was down to the final thread when the doors creaked open behind him.

 

A guttural roar erupted, filling the small space and echoing down from the vaulted ceiling. Han could feel the ground tremble, knew that the blow falling. But it was not a deathblow: he held death between his hands, and he focused on the last thread.

 

It unraveled and fell away, and he felt a surge of satisfaction as his fingers closed around the box, even as the the blow landed on his temple. Pain blossomed and his vision blurred as he was thrown to the side. He tumbled into another stack of crates, crumbling over the sharp wooden edges as another roar, directed into his ear, it seemed, shook the walls. Swiftly, without bothering to take stock of his attacker, he tore the box apart, feeling for the cold touch of metal. He found it, clasping it with unsteady fingers. He immediately brought his hand to his mouth, wincing as the metal clanged solidly against his teeth. In the same moment, he leapt towards the doors, his form thrashing and lengthening.

 

It was a desperate, foolish move, he knew, as he passed the doors and lifted into the dim pre-dawn light, tail whipping through the air as he gained altitude and speed. If they thought he was a creature of two legs, he would almost certainly have gained a headstart as he fled. But he had shown his hand too soon. Now they--now she--knew exactly what he was, and he was sure she was prepared.

 

The wind whipped through his whiskers and mane, dragging the warmth out of his scales as he rose to meet a low cloud, hoping to hide from sight.

 

It was too late.

 

Behind him, gaining, was the sound of an aspen forest in a storm.

 

_-_-_

 

The spectre upstairs had put a damper on Lúci’s whole day.

 

He’d been worried, of course, when word spread of her arrival. Everyone had been worried, even the customers, once they’d found out why they were clearing the main recreation areas, just in case _she_ came. They’d herded everyone to side rooms, a few unlucky frogs and slugs left to attend and guard their customers, and everyone else had hightailed it downstairs.

 

At first Lúci had remained upstairs, assigned by his supervisor to entertain the customers as best he could. Nobody wanted music. They simply sat in small groups, whispering to each other from time to time, protesting at any sound, loud or quiet.

 

So Lúci had headed downstairs, excited despite himself at the prospect of a night off, even if he was worried they might be carrying corpses out before sunrise.

 

The atmosphere was even more oppressive downstairs. Everyone had gathered in the dormitories and the few other rooms that had doors, barricading themselves behind the flimsy sliding panels. The musician had skated from dorm to dorm, sliding open doors to yelps and curses. He’d tried to break the tension with a little cheery music, but nobody, but _nobody_ , was in the mood for it. They’d only glared and muttered, wondering if Lúci was trying to lure the spectre to them with his noise.

 

So he had gone down a few flights, finding a storeroom near the dishwashing station to sit and play to himself, even though the acoustics in it were terrible. It seemed like the room where music came to die, each note springing from his soundboard only to fall flat on the dusty ground.

 

It was a little depressing. The dark interior did nothing to help. The storm outside choked off nearly all the light; rain was lashing at the windows. It was letting up a little, but it still added a low droning background noise that he didn’t appreciate at all. The storeroom had a single naked light, throwing harsh shadows across the floor. His own shadow was monstrous looking, despite his tiny size. He amused himself with a little shadow theater, twisting his webbed fingers into strange shapes and rising dramatically from behind a crate, his shadow spilling out into the hallway.

 

Not bad. He’d have to look into making some puppets later. He jumped down from the crate, landing with a soft _plop_ next to his soundboard, already thinking of a composition to accompany the theatrics. His shadow moved with him.

 

But it left something behind.

 

He could see it moving out of the corner of his eye. He whipped his head up, bulging eyes wide. Something had followed his shadow, moving into the storeroom. It was immense, towering over Lúci, blocking the entire doorway, cutting off the grey stormlight coming through the windows. Whatever it was seemed to be vaguely humanoid, but it was indistinct, and a hood was draped over its head, hanging low over its face.

 

The spectre!

 

Lúci let out a high-pitched scream.

 

It was a mistake, although there was little else he could have done. The spectre dissolved into a black, hissing mist that rolled forward. Lúci screamed again as he felt it engulf him, then he opened his wide mouth once more when he felt a thousand bites in his skin, but this last scream never left this throat.

 

The spectre reformed, solid, with a firm outline, black cloak clearly discernable, hood throw back a little to reveal the white avian mask. Lúci was nowhere to be seen. He flexed his fingers, bringing them close to the opening to the mask to inspect the lengthening claws. His shoulders shook but stilled almost immediately when a low chuckle accompanied the shaking. A low growl followed, experimental, along with another chuckle. “I--could get--used to this.” The voice was gravelly, disused, cruel.

 

“Hey! What’s going on? Who’s there?”

 

Someone was coming down the hallway, from the direction of the dishwashing station. Someone had heard Lúci’s screams.

 

He clenched his hand into a fist, hissing as the claws punctured his own palm, black smoke rising from the wound as it struggled to close around them.

 

“Dead man walking,” he ground out. He moved out into the hallway. “Time to get moving, _vaquero_.”

 

Another scream echoed up and down the empty space, sharply cut off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! Man, this chapter felt like pulling teeth. Poor Amélie seemed like a shoo-in to replace the River God, but when I tried to write this I found that I hadn't quite figured out how, exactly. It triggered some writer's block to be honest. But I got it, eventually.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Ça me fait de la peine  
> I’m terribly sorry
> 
> Petit piaf  
> Little sparrow
> 
> ¿Cómo te atreves? ¿Cómo, mij-no, ya no eres mi hijo.  
> How dare you? How, my so--no, you’re not my son anymore.
> 
> ¡Joder!  
> Fuck!
> 
> ¡No vuelvas! ¡Nunca! ¿Me oyes? Ésta ya no es tu casa, ya yo no soy tu-  
> Never come back! Never! Do you hear me? This is no longer your home, I am no longer your-
> 
> Por qué vuelves tan tarde, mijo? ¿Mijo? Quieto. Mírame. ¿Dónde estabas?  
> Why are you back so late, son? Son? Stop. Look at me. Where were you?
> 
> Con los chicos.  
> With the guys.
> 
> Cuáles chicos? No los Deadlock, ¿verdad? Mijo. Mírame a los ojos.  
> Who? Not with the Deadlock, right? Son. Look me in the eye.
> 
> Tranquilo, vaquero.  
> It’s okay, cowboy.
> 
> Abre los ojos.  
> Open your eyes.
> 
> Lo lamento.  
> I’m sorry.
> 
> ¡No vuelvas!  
> Don’t come back!
> 
> ¡Cállate!  
> Shut up!
> 
> Anija! Dame! Yada! Onegai, niisan! Onegai!  
> Brother! Stop, stop! Please, brother! Please!
> 
> La chasseuse revient!  
> The huntress returns!


	7. Paper Beats Dragon

Morrison’s blue eyes stared at him from behind a pig’s face.

 

He spun around with a gasp, avoiding their gaze, only to find two more pigs behind him, side by side, staring at him with the same accusatory expression. One had green eyes, eyes he’d known for only a few hours yet were already seared into his mind, the other’s changed in the wildly oscillating light, flashing from bottomless black to bright tiger’s eye, sad to hopeful, trusting to betrayed, kind to murderous, and back again.

 

He couldn’t move. The pig with Morrison’s eyes sidled into view, snout twitching, mouth open, the long tongue lolling out. He tried to blink as he felt tears slide out of his eyes without the mercy of blurred vision. More pigs pushed around, knocking into their neighbors with low grunts and high squeals as if vying for his attention, trying to crowd out the trio in the center, who made no move whatsoever. He could feel puffs of air and drops of spittle against his face as the pigs squealed and bellowed, could smell their sour milk, rotten food breaths, tried to clap his hands to his ears to drown out the wretched sounds but could do nothing but meet those eyes, blue, green, and ever-changing--

 

McCree woke with a retching gasp that devolved into a coughing fit, clumsily sitting up in the futon and raising a clenched metal fist to his mouth. 

 

The tears were real. He could feel them cooling rapidly from where they had trickled down the sides of his face and into his ears as he lay on his back. 

 

His chest and throat soon ached with the force of the dry coughs as he tried to breath through them. Soon enough the fit subsided, and he became more aware of the cold sweat that enveloped his whole body. The nightmare had thankfully been short, if intense. His nightmares were usually far more subtle, beginning in some tranquil spot or memory before a small detail seemed wrong, which set off a slowly building chain reaction which eventually sent him barrelling back into the waking world. This one-

 

He covered his eyes with his free hand, biting down on the unyielding metal of his fist. Short, sweet, and to the point, that’s how he would describe this nightmare. With a heavy dose of sarcasm, of course. 

 

He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, counting his breaths. 

 

After number twenty, he lowered his hands and opened his eyes, blinking at the light of day that managed to make its way into the room. He was once again in the corner of the dormitory, furthest from the door, with Shi lying motionless at his side in his own futon. 

 

After Shi had finished his “story”, they had spoken little for the rest of the night, each man lost in his own thoughts. When they had spoken, it had been of trivial things as Shi repaired his helmet with thin bamboo rods from a small supply drawer in one of the dormitory closets and McCree prepared their bedding. It was only a little after midnight when they had had their conversation, but each had felt like they had climbed every stairway in the bathhouse ten times. McCree himself had fallen asleep as soon as his head had hit the pillow. His coworkers hadn’t roused him when they came in, and it didn’t seem like he had even moved until woken by the nightmare, judging from the blankets that lay flat across his legs rather than being twisted into a tangled mess by his constant sleep movements.

 

He laid himself back down, glancing at Shi and the rest of his coworkers. Nobody seemed to have been disturbed by his fit, not even Shi, though it was hard to tell with his helmet securely back in place. McCree couldn’t help but smile a bit. Either Shi was ignoring him, had been so tired he was now completely dead to the world, or he’d greatly exaggerated how easy it was to wake him with his “ninja training”. 

 

McCree mentally put quotation marks around “ninja training” because he wasn’t sure it counted when the supposed trainee was a dragon.

 

He sighed softly as he lay his head against the pillow, staring at the ceiling as his mind gravitated back to the subject that seemed to already be wearing tracks into his psyche.

 

The tale of the two great dragons, Han and Shi.

 

He turned his head slightly, studying the profile of the masked man beside him. Shi was also lying flat on his back, as though he, too, hadn’t stirred since sleep took him. McCree could clearly imagine the myriad scars hidden underneath, left behind by cuts, slashes, and burns. 

 

Each one a testament of the fury of Han.

 

Yet again, his view of Han had been rocked, each new piece of information adding to a jumble that produced a different conclusion when viewed from another angle. Han’s kindness to him stood in stark contrast to the living proof of his cruelty that slept beside him, much as it had when Han had “betrayed” him after he’d signed Amari’s contract. Before he’d slept, McCree had gone over each conversation he’d shared with the man, thinking on each intimation and implication and how it stacked against Han’s actions and Shi’s account. 

 

He was sure a lot of his questions and doubts could have been resolved if he had had the courage (or discourtesy) to ask Shi for more details, but he had not. For one thing, Shi had seemed quite finished with talking about the subject, and after a night like last night, McCree would be the last to push him for more-or at least, he had been unwilling to last night when McCree himself had been exhausted. Now, with a meal and a few hours’ sleep, he was burning to know more. 

 

First and foremost: did Shi hate his brother? 

 

The way they had interacted when Han had assigned him to be McCree’s caretaker had revealed nothing at all; McCree hadn’t even the slightest suspicion that the two shared any kind of history beyond shared employment. After McCree had been sure of Han’s benevolence, he had supposed that he’d assigned him to Shi because Shi would be kind and sympathetic, but he’d given little thought to  _ why _ Han would know Shi would be so. If nothing else, the two could apparently tolerate each other, but McCree could say the same for many a fellow gang member or agent that he had passionately hated.

 

Shi’s rather irreverent nickname “Half-Pint” could mean almost anything. Shi seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve, with an opinion on everything and everyone that he hadn’t seemed shy to share, but as he struggled to remember every word he’d said about Han, McCree could only come away with a sense of ambivalence.  

 

Second: did Shi know what Han had attempted to do for him?

 

Again, it was impossible to know. Han himself had apparently decided to keep McCree in the dark about that specific aspect of his contract, and the lack of interaction between the brothers gave him precious little to work with. It was hard to imagine that Shi  _ didn’t _ know, or at least suspect. Why else would Han be here? Why else would he have fallen into the trap of Amari’s employ? 

 

It was, sadly, not too hard to imagine how Shi had fallen to Amari’s clutches. He was kind, clever, and strong-willed, but his reaction to the goddess had revealed a certain lack of self-domination that he could easily see Amari taking advantage of, especially if he had been consumed with the rage that only betrayal of the first order could produce. McCree knew exactly how easy it could be to steer someone like that, from personal experience. Deadlock had been quick to take advantage of him, after all, and Blackwatch, too, to a certain degree. 

 

But Han? Han could have no reason to bow to Amari  _ but _ his brother.

 

From what very,  _ very _ little you know of him, said the Blackwatch in him.

 

And it could very well look different to Shi, betrayed by his own brother before finding that same brother “trapped” in the same prison, yet somehow still outranking him, serving as their captor’s right-hand rather than on the bottom rung as he was. 

 

But then again, knowing Amari, perhaps Shi had merely been a stepping stone to her true goal. After all, Shi had shown little of the powers Han had. Perhaps it was a result of the battle, a scar that ran deeper than Shi’s skin, but given how Amari used Han, it was impossible that she wouldn’t use Shi the same way if she could.  _ Word spread, and word soon came back. _ Came back, or was sent back? 

 

And then there was the third question, the one that perturbed McCree the most.

 

Could he help them? Save them, even?

 

On the surface, it seemed unlikely. McCree’s first priority, by oath and honor, was Morrison, and he was far from knowing how he was going to pull that one off. Could he afford even contemplating how he could get two more people out of this accursed place? And, ethically speaking, why should he limit himself to those two only? After all, he was thinking very little of how to save Lin, for example, or the hundreds of other nameless slaves literally surrounding him. Why should he think only of the few that he had formed a connection with, and more still of the two (or the one) that had become dear to him?

 

And, assuming he could afford to think about it, did he have a rat’s chance in a snakehouse of succeeding? Logic said no, but his heart-

 

Air forced out of his lungs. Breaking the surface into yellow sunlight. A strangled gasp.

 

He laid his flesh forearm across his eyes, squeezing his eyes shut and twisting his mouth into a grimace as the half-formed sensations once again faded away before he could grasp the significance. He was sure, now, that there was a significance of some kind, if he could only--

 

It was too early for all this, and he could tell sleep would not be returning soon.

 

He might as well go clean up. He hadn’t bothered to undress at all last night, which had probably been a mistake, given how much he had sweated during the nightmare. He idly wondered when Shi would show him the way to the laundry room, and how often they’d be using it. There was only a single set of clothes in his size, after all. 

 

He rolled onto his side and out of the futon onto the floor in preparation to get up. He grunted in surprise and slight pain when something hard bit into his side, caught between the hard floor and his flesh. He arched his back, trying to lift his side away from the pain, and he felt something-or a couple of somethings-dislodge from somewhere around his waist and roll towards his armpit.

 

He sat up, feeling them, there was definitely more than one, roll back to be caught by the ribbon. He frowned as he felt them through the cloth of his tunic. They were hard, warm to the touch, and--bullet-shaped?

 

He hoisted himself to his feet, still clutching his side, and he padded to the door between the sleeping rows of coworkers, sliding the door open and closed as quickly and silently as he could. In the bright light of the hallway, he felt for and fished the objects out of his shirt one by one.

 

Not bullet-shaped. Simply bullets.

 

He found more pinched in the folds of cloth held against his skin by the ribbon around his waist, between his tunic and undershirt. They were bullets for Peacekeeper, he realized, rolling one between thumb and forefinger and noting the caliber. There was six total, each made of a dull green material he didn’t recognize; it didn’t seem to be metal or plastic. He remembered in a flash feeling something there the night before, right after he woke from seeing the goddess, but it had been driven from his mind when he’d seen Shi without his helmet on. Had the goddess of the hunt left them there? Why?

 

He stood in the hallway, rolling the bullets back and forth in both hands, and contemplated. Shaking his head, he turned and headed for the bathroom. He could think about this strange gift while he used the can and bathed afterwards.

 

By the time he was done, he had come to no firm conclusions other than it would be better if he kept them with Peacekeeper, which meant a long trip down to the boiler room. He sighed as he emerged from the bathing room, having already secreted them away in-between his tunic and undershirt where he’d found them. It would have been better if he’d waited to clean up until afterward, given how many stairs he’d be climbing, but there was no helping it now.

 

He came face-to-face with the supervisor, who let out a tiny squeak of alarm and flailed his arms wildly at the sight of McCree.

 

He’d been standing at the sliding door of the dormitory, and it seemed that he had been sliding it open centimeter-by-centimeter before being surprised by McCree. McCree raised both hands to chest-level, palms out. “Whoa there!” he said softly. “Didn’ mean t’surprise ya-”

 

“Mac! Oh, Mac, you must come at once, it’s terrible!” The supervisor was obviously trying to keep his voice down, but even so his voice echoed slightly up and down the hall. McCree bit his bottom lip as he took in the supervisor’s disheveled tunic and hat and the sweat dripping down his face. His protruding eyes were bulging out much more than usual, and he was leaning on the flimsy sliding door for support, causing it to snap and pop alarmingly under the strain.

 

“What? Why? What’s happened?” 

 

“Shi must come, too, you two are the only ones who might-” the supervisor let out another undignified sound of alarm when the door was wrenched out from under his weight, making him stumble back. Shi was there, impassive in his helmet, back straight. 

 

“What happened?” There was a note of strain in Shi’s voice, one that McCree understood immediately. The last time they were the “only ones”--

 

“Come, we mustn’t alarm any of the others-oh, Kosugi! Back to sleep, it is nothing, I just need Little Shi and Mac, is all. Back to sleep!” The supervisor had attempted a light tone that was not the least bit credible. He beckoned at Shi to come out into the hallway. As he did so, McCree came up to his side, glancing into the dormitory. Several frogs had sat up, peering at the doorway in various stages of bleariness and alarm. The supervisor slid the door closed, slamming it against the doorpost, causing several frogs to startle awake with a cry.

 

The supervisor paid them no mind, turning and leading the way down the hall, McCree and Shi following behind, sharing a look. The supervisor paused as he came to the corner, peeking around. McCree raised his eyebrows and glanced at Shi. He was already missing being able to see Shi’s expressions, but he could see how his shoulders stiffened. 

 

The supervisor continued to check each corner before he turned down the hallways leading to the shaft. Each was dimly lit with the scant amount of daylight that managed to bounce off the walls. Before he turned down the last one, he none-too-subtly glanced up and down the hallway to make sure they were alone before turning to McCree and Shi and stage whispering, “There is an intruder in the bathhouse.” 

 

Shi sucked in a breath. “What kind of intruder?” 

 

“I do not know, Little Shi,” said the supervisor, “but whatever it is--” He, too, sucked in a breath, this one long and shuddering. He seemed to gather himself, his bulbous eyes fixed on the ceiling, his long, thin fingers tangled in his ruffled beard. “Amari-sama sensed it early last night. She instructed me to keep a lookout, but our other guest kept us rather occupied.” McCree suppressed a snort at that, as though the supervisor had been the one to deal with her. “I do not know if Amari-sama did not remember or merely thought it innocuous, but she has gone on one of her journeys, before I discovered many of your coworkers did not return to their dormitories this morning.” 

 

McCree narrowed his eyes. “‘Didn’ return’?” 

 

“No, Mac, they did not. They were mainly dishwashers which I may not have noticed until sunset, but one was poor Lúci, and I noticed his beautiful voice was missing when I was bidding you all good night, so I went to search for him. He has a habit, you know, of shirking his duties to go compose in some corner, and if I did not find him, who knows when he would reappear? But--” 

 

The supervisor closed his eyes with an audible pop. He trembled, looking like a tree caught in a windstorm. “It is down in the storage rooms,” he said, voice lowered to a true whisper. “I caught merely a glimpse. It is--it was--a, a shadow of some sort. Poor Risa must have hidden from it, and when she heard the elevator, she came running out. But it was waiting. Oh, the poor thing! There was nothing left of her, nothing! I saw it come from behind, and it-it-” The supervisor buried his wide face in his hands. “I could not do anything,” he mumbled through his fingers, voice muffled. “I could only put the elevator into reverse! But it saw me, I am sure it did. Its eyes--” The supervisor hiccuped and fell silent.

 

McCree exchanged a look with Shi, who stepped forward and put a hand on the supervisor’s shoulder. It looked tiny compared with his bulk. “When will Amari return?” asked Shi softly. 

 

“I do not know! Before sunset, she said, but it is only now noon! And Han-sama is still away as well! He was to have returned by now, but he has not.” McCree felt the pit of his stomach drop, and he tried not to look at Shi. Shi didn’t seem to look anywhere but at the supervisor. “Oh, my boys, I am not made for such business as this! You saw how well I performed in front of our guest yesterday! You must know-” 

 

“We’ll investigate.” McCree’s voice was steely. “We’ll see if we can find out where it is, and what it is, if we can. You wait for Amari-sama and send her down as soon as she gets back.” 

 

The supervisor lowered his hands to regard McCree with a strange mix of emotions on his face. Relief, certainly, but with a certain amount of guilt and awe.

 

McCree stepped forward. He knew the importance of witness accounts when going against the unknown. “Is there anythin’ else you can tell us?” he gently asked. “When you say ‘nothin’ left of her’, do you mean-” 

 

“Oh, nothing, Mac, nothing at all! The shadow consumed her, and left nothing behind, no bones, no clothes, nothing! She was simply gone, and it laughed! That cruel laugh, I nearly lost myself where I stood!” Mac put his hand on the supervisor’s other shoulder and rubbed it consolingly. He was plainly stressed, nearly hysterical. McCree had done a fair few interrogations, equally at home on the street or in the holding cell, and he worked to bring the supervisor back down. 

 

“That’s awful. I’m sorry,” he murmured soothingly. “But me and Shi gotta know what we’re up against before we go down there, understand?” The supervisor nodded uncertainly, and McCree nodded back with a determined look, trying to look as confident as possible. “You say it’s like a shadow with eyes. What else? What else does it look like?” 

 

“I could only see a little,” whimpered the supervisor. “It was still dark, and the lights were out. I could only see its mask.” 

 

McCree reeled internally, but he fought to keep an even tone when he asked, “Mask?”

 

“Yes, a white mask, with black eyes. It was like a kaonashi. It swarmed over her with its shadow and then she was  _ gone _ .” McCree continued to rub his shoulder, but the motion was mechanical, his attention elsewhere. The guest from before--could it be the same one? But he hadn’t looked like a shadow exactly, and McCree thought of his silently shaking shoulders, as if he were unable to make a sound. Still.

 

“Where, exactly, did you see it?” he managed to ask.

 

“In the storage room hallways. Who knows where it could be now?” McCree looked at Shi, raising an eyebrow. Shi nodded back. 

 

“Alrigh’. You go on up. If it’s in the storage rooms, the higher up y’are, the better, I reckon. You go on up and wait for Amari, we’ll go take a look around.”

 

He patted the massive shoulder and turned to leave. He felt a huge hand on his shoulder stop him and looked back. The supervisor looked like he was trying to figure out what he wanted to say. Finally, “Be careful, Little Mac. I-I am sorry to burden you and Little Shi with this so soon after you so bravely served our guest last night.” 

 

McCree gave a crooked grin. “Well, maybe you should consider promotin’ us from maintenance t’security. That’d be more in line with our skillset, wouldn’ it, Shi?” 

 

Shi gave a short bark of a laugh. “Indeed it would. Don’t worry, Rhine-san. If we can’t handle it, Amari-sama certainly will. Go and wait for her, and send her down as soon as possible.” Rhine rewarded their efforts with a tremulous smile, but he still let them take the lead around the last corner to the shaft beyond. 

 

They saw him to the elevator and watched him disappear upwards. As soon as the elevator was out of sight, Shi turned to McCree. “We must go and make sure Lin is all right,” he said with a sense of urgency.

 

McCree nodded. “That’ll be the first step. We need to establish where it has and hasn’ been, see if there’s a pattern we can nail down. If it’s startin’ at the bottom and makin’ its way up, it might’ve started with-” Shi cut him off with a sharp intake of breath. McCree grimaced. “C’mon, let’s go. We’ll take the stairs. If it saw Rhine takin’ the elevator, it might think that’s a mighty fine way of ambushin’ someone.” 

 

Shi nodded, and they headed down the stairs. McCree, of course, had another motivation for starting at the boiler room. He surreptitiously felt at the bullets hidden under his tunic. His fingers were itching for Peacekeeper.

 

While they were still a few stories above where the intruder was last seen, he asked Shi in a low voice, “You got any idea of what we might be dealin’ with?”

 

Shi shook his head. “It could be any number of things, and I didn’t make much of a study of spirits, back when I had the chance. That’s more Han’s purview. He used to-” Shi’s voice trailed away for a moment. McCree was about to lead the conversation elsewhere when Shi continued, his voice heavy. “-he collected all kinds of scrolls and books. It was practically a library. He was always encouraging me to sit with him and read through them, but I never did. Wish I had now.” 

 

McCree nodded mutely. He was torn between steering the conversation back towards the matter at hand and hearing more about Han and Shi’s past, but given what was going on was a life-or-death situation, with known casualties, it was no contest what he should do. “Then it doesn’ sound like any spirit you’ve served before? Nothin’ with a white mask and black eyes?” 

 

Shi seemed to shake himself. “There’re plenty of customers with white masks, of course, but a shadow? That sounds more like the formless, the spirits that make up the populace of the town. But they’re just that: formless. They have power over inanimate objects, but over a slug or a frog? Or us?” he shook his head derisively. “Sounds like something else, something more powerful. But what it could be?” He slowed as they reached a landing. They were only two floors up from the storage rooms, three from the entrance to the space with the elevator motors. “Maybe we are being foolish. We should wait for Amari.” 

 

McCree shook his head as he kept descending, slower, with more caution now that they were in the general vicinity of the last sighting, but still going forward. “If it’s already goin’ after people, then we need to know where it is and where it’s goin’. We establish a baseline and find its  _ modus operandi _ , its way of doin’ things, and then we can figure out what t’do with it. Besides, with most people sleepin’, they’re sittin’ ducks. We gotta-” he cut himself off when he realized he’d descended a full story without Shi. He turned around and went back up, taking stock of his surroundings as he did so. 

 

Shi was looking down at him. His shoulders were tense once more, and his arms were rigid at his sides. “Who are you?” The question was unexpected, sharp and incredulous. 

 

McCree frowned as he went back up to join him where he stood on the landing. “Whaddaya mean?” 

 

Shi snorted, impatient. “I mean--you show up with a gun and a cowboy hat, already cozy with an emissary of death who turns out to be a corrupted goddess of the hunt. You throw yourself into danger, even when you’re completely defenseless, on behalf of people who scorn you. Who  _ are _ you? What were you  _ doing _ out there in the human world?” 

 

McCree scratched his head, trying to ignore the phantom feel of the hat that wasn’t there. As he spoke, he continued to scan their surroundings, unwilling to be completely distracted as they stood more-or-less completely open. “More of the same, I guess.”

 

“More of the same,” repeated Shi.

 

“Well, yeah. I told you before-”

 

“You told me you were part of a gang. Gangs don’t go around saving people.” 

 

“Well, no, that was after. Look, we got no time t’go into this. Suffice t’say my gang got shot up and disbanded by ‘the good guys’ and they gave me the chance to pick prison or a second chance, and I took the second chance. And this is what I learned t’do with it.”

 

Shi shifted his weight and folded his arms across his chest. “And that included how to hunt down spirits.” 

 

McCree laughed a little. “Nah. That wasn’ part of ol’Reyes’ curriculum, but it’s all I got. Look, I’ll explain my time with Overwatch t’ya later, once we’ve got this whole thing settled, but right now we gotta make sure Lin’s alright, if nothin’ else. Once we’ve got a secure base, we can start clearing the lower levels of the bathhouse and give Amari some useful intel.”

 

Shi seemed to hesitate. McCree bit his bottom lip. If Shi wasn’t willing to go along--well, without backup, it would be better to wait for Amari.

 

But Shi nodded and continued down the stairs. McCree breathed a silent sigh of relief and followed.

 

They reached the bottom of the shaft without incident, and McCree took it on himself to ease the door that led into the elevator motors open. There was no indication of anyone or anything. The motors themselves were still and silent. They dashed across the wide space and headed for the passage to the boiler room. McCree held out a hand to detain Shi when they reached its entrance, checking around the corner for anything unusual. The passage was as long and dark as always, and he frowned at the numerous crates and supplies scattered throughout, each a perfect place to ambush the unwary. He led the way through, hugging the wall as best as he could. They reached the entrance to the boiler room, and he whispered to Shi to watch the passage as he quietly slid open the door, bright sunlight poured into the passage. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted.

 

The boiler room was completely empty and looked completely normal, the machinery bathed in warm sunlight that poured through the western windows at a high angle. He waved Shi through the doorway before he stepped up and closed the door. 

 

Shi continued to hug the wall as he made his way past the platform. McCree followed his lead towards what he assumed was Lin’s sleeping space. He started at the inquisitive  _ woo wee? _ Bastion was standing at the entrance of his shed, head tilted as it took in Shi and McCree’s odd behavior. He saw Shi acknowledge the construct with a curt nod before turning away, but he didn’t abandon the stealthy way he was moving. McCree paused until he was sure Shi wasn’t looking before he turned to Bastion and mouthed  _ hat, boots, and sack, please! _ He wasn’t sure if Bastion could see from across the wide space, but it gave a little nod and disappeared back into its shed.

 

Shi, meanwhile, had reached where the corner of the platform nearly touched the corner of the wall, leaving a narrow space. Shi looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. He looked back at McCree. “He’s there.”

 

McCree nodded with a small grin. “Better wake him up and let him know what’s goin’ on.” 

 

Shi snorted. “He won’t be happy. Be it on your head.” McCree was happy to hear humor creeping back into his voice before Shi disappeared around the corner. McCree hurried forward and looked around just in time to see Shi lean over Lin’s prone form in a bed set into a small alcove and shake him awake.

 

He had to dodge the heavy mechanical claw twice before Lin’s gravelly voice demanded, “Vat?  _ Vat? _ I vill tear you apart you- _ Shi?  _ Oho, you vill pay!” 

 

“Lin-wait, it’s serious! There’s an intruder!”

 

“Bah! Let Amari or Han-”

 

“They’re not here, Lin, listen, this is serious.”

 

There was a pause. “It must be, if you haven’t started laughing by now.” 

 

“It really is. There’s some kind of shiryō or goryō in the lower levels. It’s-it already got some people, Lúci and Risa, and some others.” 

 

“ _ Got _ tem? What do you mean, got tem?”

 

“I don’t know, exactly. Rhine saw it get Risa when he was looking for Lúci. He says it didn’t leave anything behind. Mac and I came down to see if you were alright.” 

 

“Aha, so you have grown some, have you? At least you didn’t send Mac alone.” 

 

McCree withdrew precipitously beyond the corner at those words. He heard Shi hiss as he turned and saw Bastion waving at him from its shed. He crossed over to it, not wanting to eavesdrop any more. Bastion gestured at McCree’s boots and hat sitting atop his sack, which itself sat just inside the entrance to the shack, out of sight. McCree grinned up at Bastion. Subtlety was not wasted on Bastion, for which he was thankful. He started digging into the sack, searching for Peacekeeper. 

 

“Look, Bastion, we’re in a bit of a situation,” he said as he tried to feel for her past his bodyarmor. “There’s some kind of hostile spirit in the bathhouse, and it’s already taken out some people. I’m gonna need ya to keep an eye on Lin until we give the all clear.” Bastion whistled softly, blue diodes flickering. McCree’s fingers found Peacekeeper and he pulled her out, sliding the cylinder out to make sure it was empty. “I don’ know if it’ll come down here, but I don’ know what to expect, yet. Amari and Han are both out, so we’re on our own for now. It’s a shadow of some kind, so if you see anythin’, grab Lin and run, y’hear?” Bastion beeped what sounded like an affirmative. McCree nodded at it as he shrugged out of one sleeve of his tunic and felt around inside for the bullets. 

 

He had a strange certainty that this was exactly what they had been meant for. He didn’t have much experience with goddesses, but if one slipped you six bullets for your gun and a vengeful spirit showed up the next day, there might be a connection. He managed to get three in his hand when he heard Shi call his name, a note of urgency in his voice. “In here!” he called back, shoving his arm back through the sleeve and slotting the three bullets into place and pushing the cylinder back into place. 

 

He hesitated. He didn’t expect Shi to be dismayed by the sight of Peacekeeper, but there were sure to be awkward questions. How would Shi react to hearing Han was helping him out?

 

Bastion waved something in his face. A piece of thick cloth. He blinked at it and then at Bastion. Bastion quickly mimed a wrapping motion and then a stuffing-down-your-shirt motion. McCree whistled softly. “If you ever decide on finding other work,” he whispered, “look up Blackwatch. You’re a natural.” Bastion cocked its head, but McCree was too busy wrapping up Peacekeeper. She made an awkward package, but she looked surprisingly small when he shoved her down the front of his tunic and she came to rest against the ribbon around his waist. Luckily the tunic was baggy enough that she wasn’t  _ too _ obvious, but Shi would surely notice, if he didn’t notice the smell of gunpowder. Hopefully he wouldn’t pry.

 

He nodded at Bastion as he stood and strode out of the shed. Shi wasn’t facing them. He was preoccupied with talking with Lin atop his platform, who was leaning over the consoles. “-have never taught tem the layout. Tey vould get lost immediately, so even if tey found someting-”

 

“Your constructs?” asked McCree when he and Bastion joined them. Shi still didn’t turn around. Lin glanced at him and nodded.

 

“Shi vas asking if tey could search for te intruder in your places. Bastion could manage it, but it is not vat you vould call stealty.” Lin straightened and turned to face McCree full-on. “I advise you not to go too far into tis little investigation of yours. Amari is best equipped to deal vit it. Vait for her.” 

 

“I gladly would, if it were keeping to itself. As it is, we should at least get a bearin’ on it t’see if we need to get everybody t’skedaddle,” replied McCree. He rubbed his chin with his metal hand, frowning. “In fact, that’s probably what we should do, regardless. Put as much space between them and it as possible.” McCree bit his bottom lip, considering. Evacuation was a mixed bag. If you knew where the danger was, moving people away was the obvious thing to do. But if you didn’t know where the danger was-- “I’d still feel better knowin’ where it was.” 

 

“As vould ve all,” said Lin, “But let me give you tis advice: go from the outside in. If it is a shadow, it is likely it is veaker in sunlight. Go out the boiler room door and circle around to te dock entrance. Ten if you find it, you can retreat back out into the sunlight.” 

 

McCree nodded. “Sounds like a plan.” He looked at Shi, who remained facing away from him. “Shi?” Lin looked down at Shi with a slight scowl. 

 

“Vell?” Shi whipped around and marched towards the passage to the outer door. McCree watched him go. He looked at Bastion and gestured with his head at Shi. Bastion nodded and followed, ducking to fit into the passage after Shi had disappeared into it.

 

McCree turned back to Lin. “Stop givin’ him a hard time.” His tone brooked no argument, but Lin rose to the challenge.

 

“You might tank me. Ven he ran down here like a scared jackrabbit, it vas I who sent him back up.” 

 

“And I thank you kindly for it, but not for keepin’ on his back. He came back up, and that’s all I could ask of him. He’d doin’ the best he can.” 

 

“You coddle him, like a child. He is much older ten you are.” 

 

“I don’ doubt it,” said McCree, though in the back of his mind he marvelled that it actually hadn’t occurred to him. “But I’ve got plenty more fights under my belt than him, and he’s doin’ real good thus far with what he’s been handed.” 

 

Lin rolled his eye skyward and turned back to the console. “If you say so. Just vatch him and yourself.” 

 

McCree nodded and walked into the passage to the door. Bastion was beeping and whirring softly at Shi, who was waiting at the door, one hand on the knob. McCree had to squeeze past Bastion, nodding at it with a reassuring smile. “Keep an eye on things, will ya?” Bastion beeped his tones of affirmation and backed up to go back into the boiler room, just a tad too wide to turn around safely.

 

Shi opened the door and waved him through. McCree blinked up at the sun that floated cheerily above in the mostly clear sky, taking a deep breath of clean, rain-tinged air. A few clouds drifted low and fat, kilometers out over the vast flat expanse of water left behind by the storm, hovering over cushions of black, hazy rain. There was an occasional distant boom of a wave breaking against the base of the bathhouse or the cliffs, but the water was calm for the most part. 

 

The boiler room entrance’s landing was also a switchback, the stairs leading down to the left in a single flight to a ledge that led back under the suspension bridge that carried the water supply to the boilers from the pumping outbuilding. Shi took the lead, glancing nervously up at the bridge as they passed underneath, as if expecting something to get the drop on them.

 

On the other side, the building broke into blocks of scattered platforms and sheer walls, the shortest of which came to McCree’s waist, that fell away from the bathhouse towards the water. It reminded McCree of the Giant’s Causeway more than anything else, mostly because it didn’t look the least bit planned. McCree frowned at the tiny dock it all lead down to. This was where they received supplies? How did they-

 

“Nobody likes Supply Day,” Shi said suddenly, as if trying to break the silence, as they clambered back up to the level of the storage rooms. “We have to form a bucket brigade to get everything in.” McCree let his expression form a little “O” face, but he didn’t reply because of the exertion of climbing/crawling from platform to platform. He and Shi fell into a pattern of hoisting each other up by turns to save time and effort. The concrete was rough under his bare soles; he wished he’d put on his boots, but since he didn’t know when Amari would return, it hadn’t seemed advisable. 

 

They were within sight of the door, another heavy green door that didn’t seem forced or broken in in any way. A large bank of windows sat alongside it, the dark interior masked by the bright blue sky reflecting in the grimy glass. He was pulling Shi up, gripping his wrist, when he heard something over the sound of breaking water: a low whistle, like swinging a long stick around your head, accompanied by a rustling, fluttering sound, like a flurry of kites overhead. He raised his head, scanning across the water, searching for the source.

 

“Han!” Shi’s head spun around at his shout, his grip loosening. McCree could tell despite his helmet that Shi was looking downward, as if expecting Han to be clambering up after them. He pulled him up to his level, hearing his feet scrap a little at the lip of the platform as he pointed with his metal arm. “Over there!” 

 

Han was about two hundred meters away, his blue-and-gold form swirling and undulating as he moved through the air like an eel. Shi tried to fix McCree with his gaze. “How do you know-” 

 

“No,  _ look! _ He’s in trouble!” 

 

“What?” Shi turned back towards the water, putting a hand over the green ellipse of his helmet.

 

“Take your helmet off! There’s  _ things _ attackin’ him!” McCree didn’t wait for him to comply before he was jumping back down towards the water, towards Han. Shi probably couldn’t see because the cloth over his eyes decreased the resolution of his eyes, but Han was surrounded with a cloud of white dots. His movements were erratic, contorting and writhing in mid air even as he moved forward at great speed, obviously trying to outrun them. 

 

He jerked and rose high into the air, his body straightening out to its full length for a brief moment before his form paused in mid-air and fell towards the water like a stone, like he had fainted. He hit the surface with a dull splash audible even at that great distance. The dots stopped just short of the water, hovering just above like a swarm of bees. McCree shouted again, racing for the edge of the water.

 

“Mac! Wait! No, stop!” Shi had caught up with him, wrapping his arms around McCree’s torso and lifting his feet off the ground to halt him, digging his stockinged feet into the ground to arrest their momentum.

 

“He’ll drown!” McCree blurted, fighting to tear Shi’s hands away. 

 

“ _ He’s a river dragon! _ ”

 

And McCree only barely registered the swarm of white dots were streaming across the surface straight towards them when the water barely ten meters in front exploded upwards into Han’s serpentine form, blue scales spattered with white spots clinging to his sides. The white dots followed him up, but now they were close enough to resolve into flat and vaguely bird-shaped objects, but they were moving too fast for McCree to get a good look. They followed Han move-for-move, and they soon caught up with him. He seemed to stop trying to run, hovering almost directly above them as he thrashed around, as if trying to bat away or tear up his assailants. McCree gazed up, teeth clenched. He shrugged off Shi’s hands and tore his gaze away, looking around them. “We gotta help him!” He froze for a moment at the sight of Shi’s uncovered, scarred face before Shi himself turned back and started running and jumping up the platforms, heading back towards the storage rooms entrance.

 

“C’mon! Amari’s got warding spells on the bathhouse!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Maybe if we get him inside-!” McCree followed him as fast as he could, but he was not as light nor as nimble as Shi. He was still four or five platforms below when he reached the door and wrenched it open. McCree tried to shout past the panting clawing at his throat from the exertion of running and jumping at full speed, trying to tell him to wait before he disappeared inside, that they didn’t know if it was safe, yet. But it was too late; Shi ran in, and the green door slammed shut behind him.

 

McCree forced a curse out as he tried to catch up. He could hear a faint snarling noise somewhere above, but he didn’t waste time with looking. He hissed as he stubbed three toes against the lip of the landing of the door itself, but it turned out to be a lucky coincidence, because it slowed him down enough to see the heavy porcelain bowl smash through the window bank that was alongside the door, barely two meters to his right. The bowl cracked against the ground, skipping across the ground without shattering.

 

He cursed again as he skidded to a stop, feeling the concrete tear at his feet. He could see Shi now, through the jagged edges of broken glass, surrounded by high piles of ornate bowls and plates. The oft-mentioned dishwashing station, then. Shi was already hefting a massive bowl twice as big as his head, swinging his whole body around like an Olympic athlete throwing a discus, launching it at the windows where it smashed through more panes, enlarging the hole his first projectile made. “Get his attention! Get him down here!” yelled Shi.

 

McCree turned and craned his neck. Han had drifted a little down the length of the bathhouse, still trying to fight off the bird cutouts or whatever they were. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted for all he was worth. “Han! Haaaan! Down here! To the dishwashing station! Han!” 

 

A tremor ran down Han’s whole body, and he snapped away from the building. McCree gave a wordless, frustrated yell before he saw Han was moving in a wide arc, gathering speed as he steered back towards him in a tight semi-circle. McCree moved right in front of the shattered windows, heedless of any glass shards around his feet, waving his arms and yelling, trying to guide Han with his voice in case he couldn’t see.

 

Han didn’t seem to have any problem knowing where to go. He pulled ahead of the cutouts and arrowed straight for the windows. McCree waited until the last second to duck, crouching as low as he could, hearing and feeling the rush of air as Han passed half a meter above him. McCree gasped as he felt something warm splash against his face. He jerked his head downward instinctively, focusing on the spray of blood splattering across the concrete.

 

He grit his teeth. He looked back up just as Han’s golden tail whipped past him. The swarm of white was filling his vision, making to follow Han inside. He sprang to his full height and twisted around, throwing himself towards the window. In the scant four seconds he was given, he tried to block as much of the gaping, jagged hole as he could with his body, back to Han’s assailants, closing his eyes and tensing as the fluttering sound rose to a cacophony of snapping sounds, like cracking whips.

 

The impact was far more gentle than he expected, though he still jolted and flinched as he felt dozens of small, light objects smack and press flat against his back, legs, and arms with a strange sensation like large, warm snowflakes caking against him, carried by blizzard-force winds. He expected to feel them cutting into his flesh at any moment, thinking of the trail of blood Han was leaving behind. 

 

It took only a few seconds for the stream to exhaust itself. As soon as he felt the impacts drop off he was flailing around, grasping and tearing at himself with abandon, peeling off huge wrinkled clumps of--paper? It seemed to be ordinary paper--with sharp tearing and crinkling noises with every movement. The ground was soon carpeted with torn and crumpled sheets. McCree was breathing heavily as he paused to take stock. No cuts, no pain, thus far. He stared at the clumps of paper clenched in his fists. They were definitely paper cutouts, and they  _ were _ bird-shaped, a simple, yet stylized pattern reminiscent of a raptor of some kind--a hawk, or a falcon, perhaps.

 

The paper suddenly twitched and tried to pull away from his hands. He dropped it in surprise, staggering back and wincing when he felt a chunk of glass underfoot, saved from cutting his foot open by a thin sheet of paper. More of the cutouts were twitching and floating upwards, and he moved back towards the window, if he needed to block it with his body again. But instead of heading in after Han, each piece drifted slowly away, as if carried by a slight breeze. They lazily floated out and over the water, where they gathered once more into a stream and picked up slightly in speed, heading away into the distance.

 

McCree watched them go for a few moments before picking his way over to the window. “Han? Shi?” he called in, before he stopped short.

 

Shi was pressed up against a counter piled high with dishes, green eyes wide, shoulders lifting and falling with short, shallow breaths. Han was sprawled in a pile of shattered pottery and cutlery, slowly picking himself off the ground, struggling to untangle his long form. His thin legs looking like a hybrid between a human limb and a lizard’s leg, each ending in three wicked-looking claws that struggled to gain purchase among the shards scattered across the floor. McCree gasped when he saw his gaping maw. Wicked, gleaming white teeth, each seemingly a long saber of a fang, stood out against faint blue lips and a lolling red tongue, but redder still were the thick ropes of blood that poured out from between each tooth, dripping to the floor in a stream. 

 

McCree moved forward, hands raised, palms out, placating. “Han? Han, you’re hurt.” Han’s head jerked at the sound of his voice, his head snapping to regard him with two achingly familiar tiger’s eyes. 

 

Another sound caught both their attention, though.

 

A whimper.

 

“Niisan.”

 

Han reacted immediately. 

 

He sprang towards the window. McCree dropped once more to avoid him, feeling another whoosh of air and hearing the sharp crack of breaking glass and a faint pitterpatter as more blood splashed across the concrete. He jumped back to his feet, looking for Han as he did so. A wet thud echoed down. Han was already a few dozen meters above, struggling to gain altitude. He’d bumped against the side of the bathhouse, and McCree bit his lip at the dark stain he left behind. He followed Han with his gaze until he disappeared around the side of the building.

 

He’s heading for Amari’s rooms, he realized. But Amari wasn’t there.

 

He turned back to the window, started to say something, but the words died on his lips. Shi was in a bad way.

 

He hadn’t moved. He was still pressed against the counter, hands gripping the edge with white knuckles, eyes wide but unseeing. His face was pale, the scars and burns almost blending into his pallid complexion. 

 

McCree stepped carefully to the door, mindful now of the broken glass. He eased the door open, keeping quiet for both Shi’s benefit and to avoid alerting anyone to their presence any more than they were already. The entrance to the dishwashing station was immediately next to him. Once again he had to be careful. The edges of the shattered pieces of ceramic looked dangerously sharp, but he braved the minefield until he was within arm’s reach of Shi. He hesitantly touched his shoulder. “Shi?” he murmured.

 

“That’s the first time I’ve seen him since then,” said Shi without preamble, distractedly. “Even the blood was the same.” His eyes slid closed, and tremors ran through his body. His legs, his left leg especially seemed unable to carry his weight; the reason he was clinging to the table.

 

McCree’s heart sank. “C’mon.” He tried to coax Shi away from the counter, but he refused to move. McCree started when Shi fixed him with bloodshot, green eyes.

 

“How?” The question was sharp. “How do you know him?”

 

McCree tried to consider his words carefully. Shi had just come face-to-face with a nightmare, so he probably wouldn’t be too happy to hear anything about Han, no matter what it was. 

 

Shi’s eyes narrowed slightly at his silence, prompting McCree to abandon caution and hurriedly blurt, “He’s been helpin’ me. He found me right after I stumbled onto this place. He tried to get me out, but he couldn’, so he helped me get a job until we figured somethin’ out.”

 

Shi’s face slackened as his attention turned inwards. “That’s how you knew to head for the boiler room.”

 

“Yeah, but I-” 

 

“That’s why he assigned you to me. He wanted to make sure you’d be taken care of, and I was--” Shi paused, a look of confusion overtaking his face. “But does that mean--that he trusts me?” 

 

“Shouldn’ he?” McCree bit his bottom lip, cursing internally.  _ That _ was a loaded question, and one that was neither fair to ask nor timely. Shi shot him a look that equaled his own internal incredulity before turning away, finally releasing the counter to bring his hands to his face, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s not my place.”

 

Shi let his breath out in a rush. “No, it’s not. Although-” he turned back to McCree, his one eyebrow raised questioningly, mouth twisted in a scowl. “You seem pretty invested. You were ready to dive into the water to save a five-meter-long dragon. Why?”

 

McCree was taken aback. “Ah-well-I don’ know if I-I mean-” He stuttered to a stop. Then he heaved a sigh. “I don’ know.”

 

“You ‘don’t know’?”

 

“No, I don’.” A little frustration creeped into his voice. “It’s-it’s like with the goddess. There’s somethin’ about him, somethin’ I  _ know _ but can’ seem to remember. It’s  _ there _ , whenever I look at him, but I  _ jus’ can’ _ -” Shi was silent, eyes locked on McCree’s. McCree sighed again, and broke eye contact, looking towards the window, focusing on the thin stream of blood that dripped from the point of a shard of glass still jutting from the frame. The struggle had seemed strange and half-imagined and insane and hopeless enough when he considered it in his own mind, but put into spoken words and voiced before an audience, it seemed even worse, on all counts. What was he talking about? Did he even know? Would anyone?

 

Shaking himself, he tried to redirect the conversation, hoping Shi would take pity on him. “Thank you,” he mumbled, feeling his cheeks heat. “For helpin’ him. It’s--it’s more than I’d expect, after what he did.” 

 

“He needs more.” McCree’s head snapped back around. Shi’s lips were pursed, his face strained. “He’s injured, badly. It takes--” Shi closed his eyes and clenched his fists, and took a deep breath before continuing. “It takes a lot to draw blood from a dragon.” There was a short pause before he continued, voice carefully controlled. “Whatever those things were, they’ve done more than he can deal with alone. He needs help.” 

 

“And Amari’s not here,” said McCree, worry coloring his voice. He moved towards the exterior door. “Who knows when she’ll be back-” 

 

“She won’t help.” The words were sharp and cold and they stopped McCree in midstep. He turned, slowly. Shi’s eyes were like ice. “Amari doesn’t waste her time with healing. You’re either useful or you’re not,” Shi dropped his gaze to his own gloved hands, opening and closing his fists. “It’s not her business to repair a broken tool.” 

 

There was a heavy silence, thick with memory. 

 

McCree trembled. Somewhere in the bowels of the bathhouse, a shadow was hunting down innocents. Han was somewhere high above, seriously injured with no hope of assistance. Shi stood before him, distraught and fragile, consumed in memories of betrayal.

 

He balanced on an agonizing point, torn in three directions. 

 

Shi decided for him.

 

“I can’t help him.” 

 

McCree swallowed, his insides twisting. Shi narrowed his eyes at whatever he saw on McCree’s face.

 

“But you can.” 

 

McCree blinked.

 

Shi raised his chin and strode forward, china crunching underfoot. He took McCree’s shoulder in his hand and guided him to the exterior door. “Go and find him. He’ll be somewhere in Amari’s rooms. Bring him to Lin; there’s a reason Amari trusts him with the herbs and minerals that go into the baths. He’s Han’s best shot at recovery.” 

 

“What about the spirit?” McCree asked, his mouth dry as Shi pushed the door open, letting light spill into the hallway. He gently shoved McCree out and closed it behind them.

 

Shin waved a hand, aiming to seem casual, but the motion was sharp and jerky. “Let Amari deal with it. I’ll go back to the dormitories through the boiler room, wake everyone up, and get them upstairs so at the very least it can’t take anyone unawares. The way Rhine woke us up, it’s likely rumors are spreading like wildfire anyway. I’ll keep an eye on everyone else,  _ you _ go help my brother.” His eyes darkened and he looked away. “Since I can’t,” he finished in a low voice. 

 

McCree wanted to ask, but the situation was too delicate. He nodded, instead, and asked, “How do I get up there?” 

 

Shi surprised him with a small, if forced smile. “Are you afraid of heights, cowboy?”

 

Neither of them noticed the pair of half-torn paper cutouts that suddenly jerked upright as soon as they passed. They closed in on Shi and McCree from behind silenty. Gently, one pressed itself against the back of Shi’s stocking, the other sticking itself in the center of McCree’s back. Neither man noticed his new passenger.


	8. A Long Climb and a Long Fall

They headed for the boiler room as quickly as they could, jumping from platform to platform. Both McCree’s feet and Shi’s stockings left behind faint bloody footprints for the first few meters, and McCree belatedly tried to rub away the brown-red spots splashed across his face, but it would take a full bath to clean away the stains. With a grimace, he noted more across his tunic and pants. 

 

They dropped to the level of the ledge and ran along it, a sense of urgency enveloping both of them now that a decision had been made and a plan formed. Both McCree and Shi didn’t forget to check the underside of the suspension bridge again when they passed underneath before scrambling up the steps to the boiler room door.

 

They burst into the boiler room, McCree panting and Shi with a set look of determination, causing Bastion to whip around with a shrill  _ SHSHCHIRRRRWEE! _ and brandish a heavy piece of green steel rebar two meters long. It stopped short when it saw who it was, and McCree managed to call out a short apology as they dashed to the entrance to the passage to the elevator motors. “We still haven’ found anythin’!” he added breathlessly in answer to both Bastion and Lin’s questioning looks, “But we saw Han come back while we were out there! He’s injured! Be ready for him!” Shi tore aside the sliding door and McCree dived through alongside him. Despite their hurry, Shi managed to slide the door home nearly silently before joining McCree hugging the wall once more. They moved as carefully as before, checking each potential hiding spot as they edged toward the gap between the two motors that framed the exit of the passageway. When they reached it, Shi stopped McCree with a hand clutched around his shoulder.

 

“Rhine’s probably shut down the elevators to Amari’s rooms; it’s protocol during an emergency,” he explained in a low whisper, gesturing upwards. “So sooner or later, you’re going to have to use the central core’s maintenance ladders.” He let got of McCree’s shoulder and sneaked around the left-hand motor, prompting him to follow. In the dim light, McCree could discern tools and oil cans scattered atop the crates lining the walls, and Shi led him to a long gap between two crates that turned out to be a hiding place for a ladder lying on its side. It looked like a fire ladder more than anything, with one end ending in long serrated hooks. Shi gestured at the wall above, and McCree could dimly see another ladder that terminated at a narrow ledge that jutted out from the wall about three meters above his head. It stopped at another ledge, where another ladder reached down to meet the ledge’s other end. This ladder narrowed and was lost to sight in the gloom. “They’re for maintaining the wood in this humidity,” explained Shi, head craning to look at the ledge furthest up that they could see, “as well as the plumbing, the wiring, and so on. We’ll go up as far as we can, then you’ll have to switch to one of the ladders to go the rest of the way.” 

 

McCree nodded. That didn’t sound too bad, all things considered, until he remembered the decrepit state of the outer stairway. He tried to scrutinize the ladders a little closer, but it was hard to tell if they were made of wood or metal. He shook his head and turned away. He’d find out soon enough.

 

They made their way cautiously to the shaft that led up to the dormitories and the staging area beyond. When they opened the door, shouts and yells spilled out. They looked at each other then hurried through to the steps of the bottom flight of stairs. It seemed Shi had been right. Everyone had heard about the spirit. Even from several stories below, the clamor of voices and hurrying feet was obvious.

 

They carefully passed the level of the storage rooms, keeping their eyes peeled for anything attracted by the noise, but they saw and heard nothing, and once passed they sprinted up the stairs as fast as McCree could manage, Shi hanging back and shooting him several looks of impatient exasperation. 

 

They only went up three more stories before Shi veered away from the next flight of stairs. 

 

“With that many people-” he began.

 

“-the elevators won’ be available,” McCree finished. “Show me where t’go.” Shi led him in the same direction McCree guessed the central shaft to be in. The hallways here were bare; they only began to become fancyish above the dormitories. Shi stopped in the middle of a hallway that seemed completely unremarkable, pressing his hands onto a nondescript wall panel and trying to shove it to the side with no grip other than friction. The panel began to slide reluctantly, moving faster when McCree joined in.

 

The yawning void of the central shaft opened up before them. On the left was the ladder, and McCree heaved a sigh of relief when he reached out and found cool metal. He turned to Shi. “You’d better come with me until we get to a floor with more people. I don’ feel right leavin’ you alone quite yet.” 

 

Shi shook his head, eyes flashing. “Give me a little credit. I can be hard to spot, too.” McCree grimaced, but Shi was apparently unwilling to brook any argument. “Go! We still don’t know how bad Han is. Every moment counts!” McCree nodded reluctantly and, gripping the side of the ladder, swung himself onto it. “Good luck,” said Shi softly before he ground the panel closed. McCree watched the light slowly disappear, but he didn’t move for thirty breaths, listening for a scream.

 

When none came, he began to scurry up the ladder, trying to remember to let his legs take most of the burden, but to spread out the effort as much as possible to avoid exhausting himself too soon.

 

At first he made good progress. The ladder soon terminated at a small ledge, and he edged along it to the next ladder at the other end and continued the climb. It seemed like each ladder was roughly two stories tall, with the ledges acting as waystations for workers to rest or leave supplies. More than once, McCree accidentally knocked aside a forgotten tool left behind by some careless worker. He managed not to send any plummeting to the bottom of the shaft far below, but a hammer got dangerously close, saved by its own claw digging into the wood of the ledge and forcing McCree to gingerly squat down to toss it back to a more secure position.

 

He was soon sweating profusely from a combination of the labor and the steadily rising heat as air found its way into the shaft from the inhabited areas and rose upwards, creating thermals strong enough to ruffle McCree’s hair and clothes as he climbed ever higher. He began favoring his left arm, the sweatless metal providing a surer grip than his soaked right hand, especially when his neck began to prickle at the sense of just how far below the bottom was getting. The prickling soon spread down his spine. McCree had never had a fear of heights, but he had no problem in imagining just how easily a lapse of attention could lead to dire consequences as his thighs, biceps, and shoulders began to burn from the exertion.

 

The heat coincided with a great deal of noise reaching him through the walls. He could plainly hear what could only be his coworkers shouting as he climbed past what must have been the staff areas, though he could catch only a few words through the general clamor and the muffling effect of the intervening plaster and wood. “-dishwashing staff-” “-not going to wait to-” “-mari-sama can’t even find it-” “-out of here! This is our hiding-” were all examples of the snatches of conversation that McCree could understand before he left them behind as he passed the floors reserved for customers. These were much calmer; it seemed that few, if any, of the staff had ventured this high yet, for whatever reason. Either the general alarm hadn’t broken out until recently, or the staff did not yet have the temerity to shelter in the areas reserved for guests. The humidity rose sharply, though, and it made the air seem to stick in McCree’s lungs with each breath.

 

At least the light was improving. McCree was soon passing walls that had lites where they met the ceiling, allowing light from the neighboring hallways to enter the shaft. This was, he realized, the source of the golden glow that was visible from the bottom. It meant he could clearly see how much further he had to go and, after a fashion, what awaited him there. The shaft ended in a smooth ceiling that someone had taken the trouble of painting pale gold, long ago. The paint had flaked off, leaving a pixelated pattern of gold and white. As he climbed, what looked to be the last ladder slowly came into view: it ended at the ceiling itself instead of a ledge, and McCree could only surmise there would be another panel to slide open when he got there. Hopefully it would be a little bit easier to find then the one Shi had pushed aside.

 

Unfortunately, even with the end in sight, McCree couldn’t help but take a break. His arms and legs were trembling, his thighs threatening to cramp. With a wince and a discontented groan, he felt his stomach try to protest at the lack of a meal, remembering that he hadn’t eaten anything since around midnight the night before. He reached the next ledge, which was only three or four ladders down from the top, and stopped. He would be very little help to Han if he didn’t at least catch his breath. He pointedly kept his back to the shaft, leaning against the wall shakily with his metal arm bracing him. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and waved his right hand a little, trying to shake off and dry the moisture there. 

 

A snapping sound made him whip his head around. It sounded like someone had taken a piece of paper and pulled it taut with a snap, and he immediately thought of the paper birds. The sound had come from his right, from the ladder he had just stepped off of. He moved away, toward the next ladder, eyes narrowing in the half-light, looking for anything white shining in the gloom.

 

The ledge cracked, shuddered, and tipped, ripping away from its moorings in the wall. It tried to pitch McCree off into the shaft. He stifled a yell, and lunged for the ladder, grabbing ahold with the sure grip of his metal arm, although it wrenched a little at the connection with the stub of his arm. The ladder itself, however, was also not firmly attached to the wall, at least at the bottom. Wood and plaster cracked and splintered as the base tried to twist out of the wall, but the moorings further up held firm. McCree scrambled up as fast as he could anyway, not trusting them to hold, the ladder’s base banging loudly as he shifted his weight from rung to rung, not stopping until he reached the next ledge, and even then he immediately crossed to the next ladder and grabbed it in case all the wood around here was untrustworthy. It occurred to him as he stood there, trying to calm himself with deep breaths, that the humidity collecting up here  _ would _ be detrimental to the integrity of the wood, and he mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it before. No more breaks, then. He would just have to hope he’d be able to rest a little when he was on more secure footing.

 

There were only two more ladders to climb. As he clambered onto the last, he scowled thoughtfully. The ladder simply ended at the flakey ceiling, with no indication of an exit. He climbed up anyway and inspected the wall on either side of the top of the ladder. Hooking an elbow around the ladder, he tried to feel for a current of air betraying an opening before he pushed at them as best as he could, though the angle was awkward and his hands, flesh or metal, could gain little purchase. He tried both sides, then tried both again, grunting in frustration before it seemed like the wall on his left was bowing a little under the force of his pushing. It was thinner, if nothing else. Maybe he could simply push through? He thought regretfully of the hammer from earlier. Would’ve been useful to bring it along.

 

He pushed at the wall in short bursts, trying to jar it open before he resorted to trying to bash his way through. Suddenly he heard a click, and the wall flew open, making him almost lose his balance. Harsh white light poured into the shaft, and he blinked rapidly, willing his eyes to adjust as he felt air rushing past him. A spartan hallway, similar to the one Han had led him down the night he had signed his contract, slowly resolved out of the glare. Nobody seemed to be around.

 

He carefully stepped off the ladder onto the white linoleum floor and turned to slide the panel closed, cutting off the warm current pouring in from the shaft. As he did, he heard the click of a bolt shooting him, and he frowned at the button halfway down the panel, the obvious release for the door. He hadn’t seen anything like it on the other side. Was the door designed to release just from someone pushing on the other side? Knowing Amari, it seemed unlikely. How else had the door opened?

 

No time to consider it. He looked up and down the hallway. White floor, white plaster walls with evenly spaced wooden frames. It looked exactly like the hallway with the elevator Han had used to escort him to the staff areas. He paused, considering. It was probably some sort of service area for Amari’s rooms, which meant no matter where he went, he’d eventually find himself in her opulent living space. The only possible way for him to orient himself was if he stumbled on that same elevator, but who knew if he was even on the right floor, or where he would find Han? He sighed, silently, feeling his legs tremble, before he turned right and broke into a shaky half-walk, half-jog.

 

There were several doors, and he cracked each one open as he passed, but there were only supply closets piled high with cleaning supplies and linen closets stuffed full of brightly patterned cloth and spare carpets. The fifth one, though--

 

The door was much heavier than the others, immediately piquing McCree’s interest. He opened it with more caution than the others, and he blinked in surprise at the voluminous space beyond. It seemed to be some kind of amphitheater, the ceiling curving into a dome, while the floor was arranged in several shallow tiers that dropped down to a deep circular pit in the center of the room. The whole room looked to be at least fifty meters across. Everything was painted a uniform white except for black-and-yellow warning stripes arranged all around several dozen--robots? Constructs?

 

_ Mecha? _

 

He stepped into the room, transfixed. There were a dozen mecha scattered around the room, arranged around the tiers which were actually a single spiral descending towards the pit, mecha in a wide array of shapes and configurations, ranging from tank-like with wide treads to bipedal models with humanoid and biomorphic attributes. One had long frog-like legs, another almost quadrupedal, low to the ground and leaning far forward like a velociraptor. 

 

Each one was obvious designed for a single pilot to slip into a cockpit covered in a light green windscreen, and every single one was colored a cheerful shade of bubblegum pink.

 

He descended the tiers towards the pit. He could see a freight lift that was apparently meant to lower mecha to the level of the pit, which, when he got close enough to peer over the edge, was veritably covered in hunks of twisted, blackened metallic fragments scattered across the concrete floor, some piled waist- and chest-high. He could see casings glittering among the wreckage, casings for bullets that bordered on being artillery rounds. One more mecha stood in the pit, surrounded by detritus, standing almost three meters tall on two multiarticulated legs. It, too, was pink, and it seemed rather top heavy and hunchbacked, with four fins sticking out of the pilot pod, two out to the sides, the others straight up, like rabbit ears.

 

One of  _ these _ had tried to burst into his meeting with Amari? He thought back to the glimpse of pink and gun barrel that had smashed through the half-destroyed door, and Amari’s startlingly blasé reaction, speaking as though to a young child. He’d half-forgotten that it had even happened; in his mind it felt like a fever dream among the horror and exhaustion of that night, but here was proof that it had really happened. But it was gratingly out of place-here was technology decades ahead of everything else he had seen thus far in the rest of the bathhouse. Why was everything, even from what he’d seen in the rest of Amari’s rooms, so antiquated, yet here was what seemed like a modern military’s hangar bay of latest-gen mecha?

 

He didn’t get to puzzle over it for long.

 

“-that idiotic  _ tanin _ !” 

 

McCree dashed around one of the tank-like mecha and crouched behind it. Amari’s voice echoed slightly in the domed room before dying away, then there was silence once more. He quickly scanned the room, quickly and quietly scooting around the mecha, straining for any movement or sight of blue cloth. 

 

“-middle of-” Amari’s voice was muffled, but it obvious she was shouting, “-damned expensive-” McCree got a bearing on the direction it was coming from: the pit. He dropped to his belly and army-crawled to the edge, peering over it. There was an arched opening below him and to the left, hidden from his view by the awkward angle. “-hadn’t done anything!” Wherever Amari was, she was far enough away that he could only hear her when she yelled for emphasis. He had to get closer--he didn’t know what  _ tanin _ meant, but she had used it to refer to Shi the night before. He grimaced at the height, a full three meters, but it wasn’t the worst fall he’d taken. He swung his legs over the edge and let himself drop, thankful the floor below him was relatively debris-free. He tucked and rolled to absorb the shock of landing. He felt a casing press into and bruise his back, but he avoided anything sharp.

 

He leapt up and headed into the opening, which led into a short tunnel closed at the far end with heavy looking wooden double doors. Amari’s voice was louder, but still not clear enough for him to understand. He drew in a breath, grabbed a heavy brass knob, and slowly turned it. The mechanism was silent, to his infinite relief, and he eased the door open a sliver.

 

It was enough. Amari was closer than he thought. 

 

“-then be it on his head! I’m coming down now. Don’t approach it or do anything else stupid.” Something slammed down, wood creaking slightly, and Amari let out a low growl. “Everything happens at once. Look at the blood! He did not even have the sense to bleed out where I could collect it. Useless. Well, just dump him. I’ll be back shortly.” And then there were footsteps, light but getting closer.

 

McCree drew away like the door had burned him. He sprinted back into the pit, pausing for an agonizing moment before he threw himself behind one of the bigger piles of junk, which was next to the lone mecha in the pit. He tried to arrange himself as best as he could to be hidden by his cover, but he froze when he heard the doors swing open with soft twin thuds against the walls of the tunnel, the sound echoing much the same as Amari’s voice had. Her footsteps, however, were too slight to echo, but they were getting alarmingly loud all-the-same.

 

He thought on how much he had sweat during the long climb, how much he smelled to everyone here, on Peacekeeper still pressed against his stomach and chest, wrapped up but still reeking of gunpowder. She would know immediately, had probably smelled him as soon as he cracked open the door. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

 

He held his breath anyway. He wasn’t going to make it any easier for her than he had to.

 

He heard her footsteps stop. He waited for the invisible hook to grab at his sternum.

 

“Ah,  _ ya qamar _ , again?” McCree’s eyes widened at the sweet tone. “Why do you refuse to sleep in that great big bed of yours?” Amari sighed, a longsuffering but amused sound. “Ah! I’m sorry,  _ ya qamar _ . Back to sleep. I’ll be back soon.” More footsteps, receding this time, and suddenly the bright light dimmed. Everything took on an aspect of twilight, and McCree was so flabbergasted by his apparent escape that he almost missed the faint sound of the doors closing once more. Like a puppet whose strings are cut, McCree’s body went limp on the floor, his head thudding on the floor, only slightly cushioned by his hair.

 

“How?” he muttered to himself, accidentally speaking aloud. How had she missed him? Surely he smelled to high heaven.

 

_ He will not stink after three days of eating our food. _ Han’s imperious tone came to him out of the depths of his memory. Well, he thought to himself, a little hysterically, he was ahead of the curve. It hadn’t yet been two days, but apparently it was enough.

 

His body tensed again and his head jerked up. 

 

Han.

 

He tried to scramble to his feet, but he’d only gotten to a shaky crouch when someone grabbed him.

 

He felt arms wrap around his neck from behind. Instinct took him, but trained instinct. He caught hold of the arms and surged to his feet while jerking them forward, trying to throw them over his shoulder. Whoever was behind him, however, reacted quickly, wrapping their legs around his waist from behind, like he was carrying them piggyback. That meant they tumbled forward together, McCree grunted when his knees hit the concrete.

 

“Ha! Ride ‘em, cowboy!” The voice was very youthful, feminine, and almost half-crazed. She twisted McCree to the side, but she let out a surprised yell that turned into a pained sound when McCree threw himself in the same direction, landing heavily on his side and trapping her leg underneath him. “Akh!  _ Aigo _ !” The arms immediately slackened, and he shrugged them off and scrambled away. He whirled around as he did so, hand gripping at the hem of his tunic in case he had to dig out Peacekeeper.

 

He was eye-to-eye with a young woman, who looked to be in her late teens or early twenties. She was hissing in pain, cradling her right leg in a half-crosslegged position. In the dim light, he could make out her long brown hair splayed over her face, a pair of headphones with two elongated earpieces, and a two-tone pilot’s jumpsuit of indeterminate color in the gloom. Her head snapped up, and he could only take in the two lines of warpaint under each dark eye before she yowled, “What was that for, you meanie!”

 

He blinked. “Wha’?”

 

She glowered at him. “You need to learn how to play nicely! No wonder Ami never lets me out, when there’re bullies like you out there! Just you wait, when Ami gets back, she’s gonna kill you good!”

 

She was seeming younger and younger to McCree with every second. Couldn’t be more than a teenager, but she couldn’t be younger than seventeen or eighteen. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t afford to waste any time. Amari had mentioned something about “bleeding out.” He grit his teeth and hissed, “That’s what ye get for jumping me from behind!” Then he stood and began to move towards the door.

 

The girl scrambled to her feet. Whatever had happened to her leg was suddenly not too serious. “Hey! Wait!” McCree paused and looked back at her. “Don’t go! I haven’t seen anyone up here for  _ ages _ , and I’m bored. C’mon! What’s your name? I’m Hana!” she said, striding forward and sticking her hand out.

 

McCree couldn’t help but step back, eyes narrowing suspiciously at the 180 degree turn in behavior. “Look, kid-”

 

“I’m  _ not _ a  _ kid _ ,” she spat, placing both hands on her hips. “Watch yourself! I’ll wreck you!” McCree growled, out of patience, and turned away once more, breaking into a jog towards the tunnel. He’d just made it to the entrance when she tried to tackle him again, jumping onto his back and wrapping her arms around his neck once again. He stumbled, his overworked muscles protesting under her weight. He tried to throw her off, but she tenaciously clung to him. “ _ No! _ ” she screamed, right in his ear. “Stay here!” 

 

“ _ I can’t! _ ” he roared, tearing at her arms. “He’s  _ dyin’ _ , understand?!” He threw her off, none-too-gently. She fell to the floor with a thud and a cry, and she tried to move back when he towered over here. “Y’see  _ this _ , honey?” he thundered, pointing at the brown patches on his face. “That’s blood,  _ his _ blood. I ain’ got time for  _ anythin’ _ else!” And he sped away to the double doors, wrenching one open.

 

He was in Amari’s office, brightly lit through the enormous windows lining one whole wall. The colors of the carpet and walls in the bright sunlight were gaudy and almost overwhelming, but they threw Han’s azure form into terrifyingly sharp relief. He was by the fireplace, a black void yawning open in the floor right behind him, being pushed toward it by the three pointy-haired, blonde heads, each cackling as it tried to nudge and push Han’s limp figure towards the edge. McCree gave a strangled yell and rushed forward. The heads chittered in surprise, backing away with startled jumps as McCree fell to his knees at Han’s head, his hands raised and trembling.

 

He had never seen anything so beautiful. He’d caught glimpses of the dragon, but only now could he see how the deep blue scales sparkled, each ringed with iridescence along the edges. Han’s head was regal, a strange yet harmonious blend of wolf, stag, and lion. A long snout with sharp teeth crowned with soft-looking pointed ears and two long and straight, backward-pointed golden horns. Thick tufts of hair or fur that was as golden as the horns lined his jaw before wrapping up behind his head, mane-like, then running down his spine like an elongated mohawk. 

 

But the eyes were closed, and a trail of dark blood led across the carpet to his slack maw. McCree ducked his head to Han’s snout and tried to pause his breathing despite his rising panic, listening for any breaths. To his relief, he could hear them, long yet laboriously slow. He wrapped his arms around Han’s neck, just below his head, and shook him, gently yet insistently. He couldn’t hope to get Han back to Lin in his dragon form. He had to wake him, get him to change into a more manageable human.

 

“Han? Han, darlin’, it’s me,” he said, croaking more than speaking past a lump that suddenly rose in his throat. “Han! Wake up for me, sugar, I can’ help you like this!” 

 

“Leave him.” 

 

McCree twisted round as best as he could without jostling Han too much. In the corner of the room, tall, imperious, and cold, was a woman. She was dressed all in blue and white, form-fitting tunic low over her hips and simple trousers over her dark brown skin. Her hair was black-blue as a starless night and draped over her shoulders and back. 

 

The woman in the strange aircraft, the half-plane half-glider, that had hunted for him out in the town. Han had hidden from her. McCree tensed. “Who are you?”

 

The woman merely stepped forward and said, “You interfere with my mistress’ orders. Leave him, and go.” 

 

McCree felt his face harden, and he was suddenly hyperaware of the blood staining his face. “And if I don’?” 

 

“Then I will remove you,” she replied, and, bringing her hands together, she worked her fingers in a way that sharply reminded McCree of his mother, weaving strings between her hands as she built cat’s cradles to entertain him during his childhood. This woman looked to be doing almost the same, but she was drawing strings of blue light out of thin air, spreading the lines into two-dimensional planes and then folding them together with blinding speed.

 

And suddenly she had an array of throwing knives floating between her hands. 

 

She plucked one out from among its mates, and raised it in one hand, clawlike. McCree’s hand flew to his tunic. He swore under his breath in the same moment, thinking of the precious seconds he couldn’t afford to get at Peacekeeper. He should have drawn her before he came in, but that girl-

 

The doors to the amphitheater burst,  _ exploded _ open. The woman cursed in a language he didn’t know and threw herself to the side, rolling into a battle-ready crouch. McCree, the woman, and the heads all gasped when the mech stomped through the doorway, a gun barrel arm catching on the doorpost and pulling it straight out from the wall, sending it clattering across the room. Through the light green windscreen, McCree could see the girl, grinning maniacally, gripping a control column in each hand that she worked to bring the mech stomping forward. Now that she was in the room, she seemed to be taking pleasure in bringing each mechanical foot down to the floor with as much force as possible, causing everything and everyone in the room to bounce. The bookshelves and desk skittered across the floor, and a lamp teetered and fell with a smash.

 

“Ha ha! Think you can yell at  _ me? _ ” she taunted when she spotted McCree, her voice amplified and electronically altered. “I’m not afraid of blood, grandpa! You wanna play rough, let’s play!” And she brought the mech’s arms up, gun barrels whining as they spun into place, preparing to fire.

 

McCree gripped at Peacekeeper through the cloth of his tunic, but it was more to comfort himself than anything. He glanced at the exits and windows, but there was no way to escape without abandoning Han. He pulled Han’s head a little closer. “‘M sorry,” he murmured. “Thanks for lookin’ out for me.”

 

“Aha. Play nice. This isn’t what I would call fair.” McCree’s head snapped up, looking for the source of the voice that seemed to be speaking from just behind him. His eyes widened as he felt something stir against his back, and a single paper cutout floated into his view, one falcon’s wing torn off. It quickly swept over his shoulder and approached the mech. 

 

As it went, a soft glow surrounded it, like mist lit by moonlight, before it suddenly expanded and shaped itself into a humanoid shape, which slowly refined into a woman. She was tall, taller than McCree, and while she was dressed in flowing blue robes, her muscular figure was apparent. She was facing the mech and its pilot, so McCree couldn’t see her face, only her black, shoulder-length hair. She was see-through, like a hologram, and McCree could see the girl pause and frown. “Who are you? A new player?” she asked, meaning to sound confident, but with clear hesitation. 

 

The newcomer laughed. “More of a referee.” Her voice was low and musical. “I was content to sit on the sidelines when it was one on one, but now I call foul. Ready for your penalty?” Without waiting for an answer, she raised a hand and drew a precise line in mid-air, a gesture that was perturbingly familiar to McCree. The girl gasped as her body contorted, seemingly beyond her control. He felt his mouth fall open when she  _ shrank _ , her limbs and head retreating into themselves. Her clothes disappeared under a wave of fur spreading across her body, her eyes seemed to wobble within her sockets before they, sockets and all, moved to the side of her head. At that point, McCree looked away, gasping. 

 

After a few seconds, he heard a small flopping sound. Against his better judgement, he looked up. The mech stood empty, and at first he couldn’t see where the girl had gone. But then a slight fluttering caught his eye. On the floor was a small pink rabbit, ears flopping, legs kicking uncertainly, black eyes wide. 

 

The newcomer chuckled and turned to the knifethrower. She seemed frozen in place, looking at the rabbit in revulsion. “As much as I would like to see a lightsmith in battle--but then again, you might like this.” The knifethrower gasped and jumped to her feet, spinning on her heel and making for the window. But before she got too far, the newcomer gestured again, and she stopped. She dropped the knives, which fell to the floor and vanished with a flash. She clutched at her sides and cried out. There was a sudden burst of light, forcing McCree to bring a forearm to his eyes to shield himself. When it faded, she was gone--but not quite, he realized. Sitting on the carpet, where she had been standing, there remained a single spark of light, the size of a firefly but shining steadily.

 

The newcomer turned again, finally facing McCree. He sucked in a breath involuntarily. Amari’s face, but youthful, without even her minor concessions to age, glanced over him before it settled on the three heads, huddling off to one side. She wore a severe expression, her left eye underlined by a sweeping line that looked like a musical note, the eyes themselves dark, the pupils lost among the irises. “And--as a distraction--” Another gesture, and the heads were spinning through the air, landing in front of the mech, stacking one on top of the other. McCree watched only long enough to see their features beginning to melt like wax under the flame of a candle before he turned away, focusing on Han, unwilling to see what they turned into.

 

Han hadn’t moved all the while. Blood continued to drip from his mouth and McCree shuddered. How much longer could he last?

 

A low chuckle. “There. Be sure to play your part convincingly.” McCree looked up. The girl was--back? But no--the rabbit was still on the floor, having righted itself. It seemed to shrink into itself, ears laid back and trembling. The spark of light sat by its front paws, but it didn’t seem to take any notice of it. The--new girl, he supposed--was looking at her hands and legs, thoroughly perplexed, each move hesitant. 

 

He felt the newcomer’s gaze on him. He swallowed and met it. Her expression was unchanged, her posture rigid, almost militant. He swallowed again and said, “And now--what?” 

 

Her expression softened a small degree with a tiny smile. “You mean, what will I do to you? Nothing, so long as you tell no one. I owe you for showing me around, after all.” 

 

“‘Showin’ you around’?” he repeated, frowning. “Who are you?”

 

She tossed her hair back, revealing two ornate golden earrings that gleamed through the strands. “Fareeha. Ana Amari’s daughter.” Her smile grew a bit when he blanched. “And now you know not to trifle with me. Now hand over the dragon.” 

 

McCree’s tightened his hold on Han. “Why? What will you do to him?” 

 

The smile disappeared into a grim thin line. “He’s already suffered the fate of a thief. I will merely take back what’s mine.” 

 

“He--wait, it’s not his fault!” 

 

“Oh, I’m aware.” Her tone was cold, pitiless. “A dragon does not turn to thievery lightly. They’re generally far too  _ noble _ for that. But this one let his pride swallow him up, and he has been paying for it ever since. Consider this a final payment, before justice is done.” She moved forward, her eyes sharpening. “If he’d been more astute, he would have freed his brother long ago, and his death would now hold some meaning. It’s too late now. Hand him over and I will-” 

 

A loud bang interrupted her, and she turned. McCree looked through to see that the--the heads? The new girl?-- had managed to make their way into the cockpit of the mech and take hold of the control columns. The mech was now flailing under their inexpert guidance, smashing into the walls and splintering Amari’s handsome desk. “Oh, you  _ idiots _ ,” she sighed as she moved towards the thrashing mech. “What are you doing? Just--just go to bed, she’ll know in an instant if you’re like this.”

 

Something small fled past Fareeha, leaving a trailing streak of an afterimage behind it. He focused on the rabbit as it ran up to him. It hesitated when it reached him, turning its head and regarding him rather pleadingly with one eye. The spark was sitting astride its neck, at the nape. McCree swallowed, and, acting on impulse, shifted Han’s neck into one arm and offered his open right hand. The rabbit--what had her name been?--clambered into it. She fit comfortably into his palm, and he could feel her trembling. He brought her protectively to his chest.

 

Suddenly he felt Han move.

 

“Ha-!” 

 

Fareeha spun around, arm raised, but she was too late. Han arced his entire body and whipped, literally  _ whipped _ his tail, complete with a startling crack, at a spot on the floor. McCree caught a glimpse of shreds of paper bursting into the air before he saw the image of Fareeha split perfectly down the middle and fall apart, fading as it did so. The two halves of her mouth tutted, and he could her softly mutter, “Ah. Distracted.”

 

But McCree was himself distracted by Han who, eyes rolling back, fell backward, into the open chute that the heads had been trying to throw him in. McCree yelled, legs scrambling to gain traction, one arm wrapped around his neck as he tried to pull him back from the brink. But it was all for nothing; Han fell in, his body pouring into the chute like a chain off the edge of a table, and--

 

_ ¡Suéltalo, imbécil! _

 

Otra vez no, he thought.

 

\--McCree was pulled in with him.

 

Wind rushed past, his hair whipping around his face. Grey stone streamed past. He felt his internal organs shift at the sudden weightlessness, and he instinctively wrapped his legs around Han, digging his knees into his sides like he was trying to stay on an uncooperative, unbroken horse. He had enough presence of mind not to clutch at the soft mass in his hand. The rabbit was digging her claws into his tunic, reaching his skin through the undershirt. 

 

The rushing wind suddenly changed in pitch as the stone disappeared and they entered a huge space. Faint orange light from somewhere unknown revealed the barest details of walls lined with irregular brick, and a fetid stench assaulted his nostrils. 

 

No time. “Hang tight to me! Real tight, honey, as tight as you can!” McCree yelled at the bundle of fur at his chest. He took his hand away, expecting her to be swept away, but her claws kept her anchored, and he managed to pull himself along Han’s body, his legs scraping and catching against the scales as he moved upstream. Han’s head lolled back and forth in the airstream. “Han!” McCree shouted. He didn’t react. McCree pulled himself to his head. “Han! Wake up! Wake up!” His hands wrapped around the horns instinctively, desperate for something to hold--

 

_ His hands wrapped around the horns instinctively, desperate for something to hold. The pressure on his chest was insurmountable, trying to push out the stale air burning in his lungs. Water rushed past, his hair whipping around his face. He pulled himself forward, the darkness complete around him, but for two glimmers just ahead, like eyes-- _

 

_ \--tiger’s eye-- _

 

Han’s eyes burst open, focusing with a snap onto McCree. McCree felt his body jostle against Han’s as his weight returned, and he was nearly thrown off Han’s back.

 

Down below, McCree could see a field of stars, yellow stars, paired off. They roiled and swirled, like boiling water, and he realized they were set into forms, slithering, blobby forms darker than coal dust, reaching up towards them, the fetid odor intensifying as they reached up.

 

And then they receded; no, Han was rising up, his body and tail thrashing, pushing through the air, gaining speed. McCree threw an arm to his chest, finding soft fur as he held onto Han with his other arm and legs.

 

Suddenly there were walls pressed in close around them again, sweeping past them too fast for any detail to be seen. Ahead of them light flared, orange-white, racing towards forward to swallow them up, the world bleeding away. McCree screamed when Han was wrenched away from him. He was falling, falling, the world was still blindingly amorphous around him.

 

“ _ WEE WOOOOOO!” _

 

_ “VAT--” _

 

McCree landed hard on his back, the wind instantly knocked out of him. He felt himself slide for several seconds across something mercifully smooth. As he drifted to a stop, he felt the rabbit kicking at his chest, and he relaxed his hand, feeling her kick her way off his chest. A pang of worry coursed through when he realized how tightly he’d been holding her.  _ Lo lamento _ . Hopefully it wouldn’t be as serious as that.

 

He was blinking rapidly, the world slowly coming back into view. The boiler room, with sunlight blasting through the windows at a moderate angle. Late afternoon.

 

He needed air, desperately, but his lungs refused to work, his diaphragm refused to flex. He tried to work his chest muscles and stomach, managing to draw in a tiny puff, but not enough. The world was fading again, into darkness rather than light.

 

Finally, reluctantly, his diaphragm began to respond, little by little, driving the blackness back just as slowly.

 

Then sound returned, dominated by snarls and yells. 

 

He rolled over, before he was ready, still not able to draw even half a breath, and he crawled towards the snarling. “H-H-Han,” he coughed out, raising his head just in time to see Han collapse in a pile of blood and scales and hair.

 

He struggled to his feet. Han had thrown him over Lin’s platform, towards his sleeping space, while Han himself had collapsed in the pit. He pitched himself forward, heedless of the vertigo that made him stumble drunkenly. “Han!” 

 

He let himself drop next to Han’s head, finally able to draw in lungfuls of air, but he felt breathless at the sight of blood once more gushing from Han’s mouth. “Lin! Lin, where are you?!” 

 

“Here, boy, here.” Lin appeared at his side. 

 

“Help him!” 

 

“I do not-”

 

“ _ Help him! _ ”

 

Lin dropped to his knees reaching towards but not touching the blood. “Tere is someting inside him, killing him. Perhaps an emetic vill help, but I have noting that will work in time-” 

 

McCree reacted immediately. He took a hold of Han’s jaws with both arms, prying them open.

 

“Vat are you-no, idiot, stop!” 

 

He couldn’t use his metal arm. The sensations were dulled, he couldn’t be sure that he wasn’t punching a hole through Han’s throat. Once he had Han’s jaws apart, McCree drew in a breath and shoved his flesh arm into his mouth, fingers searching.

 

Han’s eyes burst open, but McCree was ready for him. “Han, it’s me, it’s Jesse!” he half-pleaded, half-screamed as he held onto Han’s head with his metal arm, his other arm fighting against Han’s tongue as it fought to expel it. “You’ve got to get it out!” he finished, forcing his hand past the tongue. He felt Han’s whole being spasm, the jaw tense, the teeth begin to dig into the joint of his elbow--

 

And then the jaw went slack, a deep gurgling noise erupted from deep within Han, and something hard and sticky rammed against his hand. 

 

He jerked back, falling backward. With an explosive, bubbling sound, Han’s head jerked and something black and gold flew out of his mouth and onto the floor.

 

It bounced across the floor of the pit, leaving globules of pearly black tar behind before it slowed enough to suddenly stick to the floor.

 

“Tere! It is out, it is done! Vait--” 

 

McCree narrowed his eyes as the black substance seemed to draw into itself. Then, to his revulsion,  _ eyes _ appeared, a pair of white eyes blinked open. Then the  _ thing _ jumped away from the gold--and it  _ was _ gold, a gold seal of some kind--and it tried to flee, skittering across the ground towards the warren of pipes covering the boiler with surprising speed.

 

Unfortunately for it, Bastion’s reflexes were  _ very _ good, and it brought a vast steel foot down with enough force that the golden seal wobbled in place from the impact.

 

Silence descended for a few seconds, McCree drawing in breath after shaky breath. 

 

Bastion raised its foot and inspected the oily underside, letting out a sharp beep of disgust.

 

That broke the spell, and McCree once again moved to Han, half crawling. He started as Han’s long body shifted slightly, then unexpectedly melted away. He gave half a strangled cry before he realized that Han the man had appeared, lying prone and facedown, from within Han the dragon. He pitched himself forward, gathering Han up off the floor, turning him over. Han’s hair, usually so tidily gathered up, had come half-undone from his ponytail. It was awkwardly caught over his ears and in his mouth, and McCree hurriedly brushed it away, revealing Han’s face, pale as death. 

 

“Han. Oh Han, darlin’, let me see you open those eyes,” he plead. Lin put a hand on his shoulder. McCree didn’t look up. “Is-was it-” 

 

“He has a chance, now, a chance given him by a  _ fool _ .” Lin’s tone was fiery, but McCree didn’t deign to reply, he merely shifted Han as he made to stand, supporting him under his shoulders. Lin sighed and said, “Bring him here.” McCree turned to see Lin gesturing at the purple pad. He dragged Han over and laid him down as gently as he could, smoothing his hair once he had him situated. 

 

“No, not yet, hold him up again. He must drink tis.”  Lin produced a shallow bowl filled with thick, clear liquid. McCree propped Han up, and Lin gently pried his mouth open and carefully poured the liquid in, waiting for Han’s swallowing reflex to work. Once he was done, he nodded at McCree and left, and he let him down once more. 

 

Bastion carefully approached, trying to be as silent as possible, before it gently prodded McCree’s shoulder with a questioning whirr. He looked up at it, and it gestured towards the corner of the pit. McCree followed until he saw a bright speck of light and pink fur. The rabbit was watching the whole scene with wide eyes, trembling, the spark still perched on the nape of her neck. 

 

McCree waited until Lin returned and sat at Han’s side, then he wearily got to his feet and walked slowly towards the rabbit, stopping and sitting two meters away. The rabbit watched him warily. She seemed rather scared, but from what he could see, she didn’t appear to be injured.

 

“Hana, right? That was your name?” he began, speaking softly, not sure if he wanted Lin and Bastion to overhear. The rabbit cocked its head before nodding slowly. McCree smiled a little. “Hana. I’m McCree. Sorry to be such a, uh,  _ meanie _ earlier, but after everythin’ you’ve seen, I hope you understand why.”

 

Hana’s ears twitched a little, and she rolled her eyes expressively upwards. McCree chuckled. “Yeah, well. I wasn’ expectin’, uh, what’s-her-name, Fareeha, I guess, to be there. I didn’ mean for you to get mixed up in all this.” Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “I know, there’s no reason for you to believe me, but I will say this: I’m sorry.” Her eyes widened again. “I’ll get you back to Amari ASAP. She’ll know how to help you, get you turned back. But I just gotta make sure my friend here is alright, first. Then we can go.” 

 

Hana fixed him with a look that seemed to be a staredown until he remembered how little rabbits blinked. Then, slowly, she hopped out of the corner towards him. He offered her his open palm, but instead of climbing into it, the spark of light on her neck suddenly grew blue-white wings that hummed into a blur, picking Hana up by the nape of her neck and carrying her to McCree’s shoulder. Hana situated herself, and McCree felt her claws dig into the fabric. 

 

He shook his head slightly. Now he was a babysitter for rabbits. What a world.

 

He made to stand up, then he noticed the golden seal sitting on the ground, within arm’s reach. He scooped it up and inspected it. On the bottom was a strange pattern, neither Japanese nor Chinese nor any script he knew. On the top was a small frog, sitting atop a two-tiered lilypad. It was surprisingly heavy in his palm.

 

He stood and walked back to sit by Han’s side, next to Lin. Bastion watched over them all. 

 

Lin broke the silence first. “Vat have you tere?” 

 

McCree sighed as he studied Han’s face. “Han was sent to steal this,” he said, showing him the seal. “From--Fareeha.” 

 

“Amari’s daughter?” When McCree nodded, Lin whistled softly. “A valuable find. Amari vould give much to have it. She did not know Han had it?” 

 

McCree shrugged. “She threw him into the garbage with this still inside him. She must not.” 

 

“Ten you are free.” 

 

McCree didn’t react. 

 

Lin tilted his head. “You do not vish for freedom?” 

 

“I need my commander’s freedom, too.” 

 

“You might have it. Amari may grant it to you boat for someting so valuable.” 

 

“Would she?” 

 

Lin shrugged. “A seal can be used in place of a name, vhere vone might be in danger if tey use teir true name. Vonce you have the seal, you have everting sealed vit it as vell. Who knows vat tat ting brings wit it? Surely enough for two people, since tey boat have teir names. Jesse, eh?” 

 

McCree nodded, not the least bit repentant of revealing what might be his most important secret. He was strangely sure that it had been absolutely necessary to let Han know that it was  _ him _ helping him. His flesh arm tingled as he thought what the consequences might have been, otherwise.

 

Lin was looking at McCree’s face with a shrewd expression. “You are not going to go.” 

 

“I don’t know.” 

 

“You vould already be gone, if you vere.” 

 

McCree didn’t answer.

 

“You vould be very lucky indeed if it vas enough for three.” 

 

“I need enough for five.” 

 

Lin laughed uproariously, startling McCree. “Boy, do not stick your nose out too far in the winter’s night, lest it freeze off,” he chided. “Yourself and your commander is big enough a task, adding even vone more is madness. But vone is all you need, since teh oter is already paid for.” 

 

McCree looked up, staring Lin in the eye. “Does he know?” 

 

Lin clicked his tongue. “He suspects. He has never asked, and his broter here, ever prideful, forbade me from saying. He came here, years and years ago, in search of his broter, blattering about righting wrongs, about redemption. He stayed long enough to hear tat his broter vas contracted before he rushed off to Amari to offer himself in exchange, the fool. If he had kept his head, he vould have been able to give him his name as vell, and true freedom. Ven he realized his mistake--vell. All too late.” 

 

McCree shook his head slowly, watching Han’s chest rise and fall. He turned the seal over in his hand. “This isn’t mine.”

 

“It is here, in your hand. It might as vell be.” 

 

“It belongs to Fareeha.” 

 

Lin snorted. “Another sorceress. Tere is no love lost betveen moter and daughter, but Fareeha is not to be riled, as you can see,” he said, waving his hand at Han. 

 

“What do you know about her?” McCree asked.

 

Lin rubbed his eye distractedly. “Very little. I vas here after Fareeha left, so it has been a very long time. All I truly know is tat tey vere constantly at each oter’s troats, vying between temselves, vit great magic trown into te mix. It ended badly, or vould have had she stayed.” 

 

“So what,” mused McCree, “would she be willing to do to keep this out of her mother’s hands?” 

 

Lin stared at McCree, then started to say something when the sliding door to the elevator motors suddenly slammed open. They both jumped, and stared at the entrance, at the supervisor’s red and sweaty face as he tried to crawl through, his large frame preventing him from making much headway. 

 

“Oh, Mac, Little Mac, there you are! You must come at once! Little Shi, he has-” he gave a cry and fell forward as he managed to squeeze through unexpectedly, falling flat on his face in his breathless rush. McCree rose to his feet and ran to his side, grabbing an arm and pulling at it ineffectually. 

 

“What? What’s happened? Is it the-”

 

“The spirit! Yes, indeed, Little Mac, it is!” The supervisor struggled to his feet, McCree’s strength doing little to help. “Little Shi came to tell us you and he had failed to find it, and encouraged all the staff to evacuate upstairs, but in the middle of us all, it came, and began to devour all in its path! Little Shi, brave,  _ brave _ Little Shi taunted it, enraged it, and led it away from us all, up into the higher floors, where no one was! But, oh, it must have caught up with him!” 

 

McCree’s breath hitched, and he glanced wildly at Han. Lin stared at him from Han’s side, eye wide. “Did it-is Shi-?” 

 

The supervisor raised his hands high the air. “I know not how, but somehow Little Shi yet lives! The spirit, the goryō, has not yet consumed him--but it threatens to, Little Mac, it threatens to kill him--unless you come.” 

 

McCree’s blood ran cold. “Unless  _ I _ come?” 

 

“It has asked for you, by name. It says it has come to free you. Amari-sama is--I do not wish to frighten you, Little Mac, though you are so brave, but I have never seen Amari-sama so enraged. She wishes you there, immediately, to deal with the goryō, and then--” the supervisor trailed off, bulbous eyes fixed on McCree’s face.

 

Yes, indeed, thought McCree. And then.

 

And then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> ¡Suéltalo, imbécil!  
> Let go of him, imbecile! 
> 
> Otra vez no  
> Never again.


	9. At Last

There was silence for a few moments. McCree was the first to break it. “Alright. Alright,” he said distractedly, attention turned inwards, one hand paused midway to cradling Peacekeeper in his tunic, the other wrapped tightly around the golden seal. His thoughts were racing.

 

It had to be the same spirit, the apparition, the one he had let in, the one who had helped him with the tags. It couldn’t be anything else. He felt a shiver work its way down his spine as he recalled his spontaneous, ill-advised words that the apparition had seemed to latch onto when he had last appeared to McCree next to the big tub. “ _...you can’ really help me get out of here. Amari’s got me in her clutches… _ ”

 

McCree closed his eyes as he felt a wave of guilt building within him. The whole mess was his fault, and his alone. 

 

He crushed it back down, for the moment. Guilt and shame he certainly deserved, but right now he had to form a plan, if he could.

 

Lin’s voice pulled him out of his preoccupation. “Vat is Amari playing at?” Both McCree and the supervisor turned to face him, the supervisor’s eyes widening at the sight of Han unconscious on the floor. He opened his mouth to say something, but Lin cut him off. “Vhy has she not cast out tis spirit herself?” His eye was narrowed, and he was stroking his long beard thoughtfully. “Vhy does she send for Mac at all?” 

 

The supervisor looked at McCree without quite meeting his eyes. “Well--I do not--but Amari said--”

 

“I let him in,” said McCree baldly. “I thought he was a guest, so I left the door open. It’s my fault he’s here.” His face hardened as Lin swore colorfully under his breath. “It’s my responsibility t’get him out,” he finished. He squared his shoulders and glanced at the door to the elevator motors. “I’ll go. Jus’--jus’ give me a minute. I gotta talk with Lin real quick.” 

 

The supervisor nodded slowly. “Of--of course.” He started to turn towards the door, but he paused for a moment before he placed an enormous webbed hand on McCree’s shoulder and turned him to face him head on, his bulbous eyes looking directly into his own. “Little Mac. This--this  _ creature _ \--has taken advantage of you. I know this. When this is over, I will make sure the staff knows, also.” 

 

McCree couldn’t hide his surprise. The supervisor smiled slightly at him and nodded, patting his shoulder twice, making McCree stagger slightly and Hana dig her claws into his other shoulder slightly at the sudden movement, before he moved away towards the door. McCree was still for a moment before he shook himself and walked to Lin, looking down at Han’s slack face as he stepped to Lin’s side. 

 

“My commander’s name is Jack Morrison,” he whispered as he held out the seal. “If I don’ make it back-” 

 

“Save your breat and keep your responsibilities to yourself.” hissed Lin, pushing McCree’s hand away. McCree, startled, risked a glance at his face. Lin was livid, red-faced with a half-snarl twisting his mouth. His heart sank and he winced when Lin grabbed his flesh arm with his mechanical claw, but all Lin did was shake him slightly and quietly fume, “Te more people depend on you, te more careful you vill be.” McCree bit his lip and tried to look away, but Lin jerked his arm to force him to face him once again as he continued in a low voice, “You must deal vit te spirit. Aftervards-” McCree let out a shaky laugh, but it was cut off when Lin tightened his grip almost painfully, “- _ aftervards _ , you must go directly to Fareeha, if you truly mean to deal vit her.” 

 

McCree stiffened. Lin’s eye searched his face questioningly. After a moment, McCree nodded. Lin nodded back. “You must take te train, ten. It vill take you to Swamp Bottom, the sixt stop, you understand? Tere you vill find her home, and negotiate vit her.” Lin stopped for a moment, then he leaned in. “ _ Do not antagonize her. _ She is as powerful and terrible as her moter. I vould not allow you to go, but if you are as determined as you say, and the luck you have continues to hold--” Lin shrugged. 

 

McCree suppressed a bitter laugh. Luck. That seemed to be everyone’s explanation for how far he had gotten here, and he couldn’t disagree. But he couldn’t rely on luck alone; it  _ would _ run out.

 

Lin dropped McCree’s arm. “Stay here,” he instructed as he turned and headed past the platform towards his sleeping space. 

 

McCree watched him go before, on impulse, he dropped to his knees at Han’s side. For a few breaths he simply watched his chest slowly rise and fall. He sighed as he let his gaze wander to Han’s face, letting himself imagine that he did not look quite as battered as he had a couple minutes before, that his skin was not quite so pale against the midnight black strands of hair spread fanlike across the mattress below his head. 

 

He focused on the lock of hair that was, against all odds, still trailing across his cheekbone, before he spoke. “Well, Han, looks as though I’m in it knee-deep this time.” He chuckled, hollowly. “You did warn me. Stay close t’Shi, don’ tell no one your name. Didn’ do either, and now look at how everythin’s gone t’hell.” He shifted slightly, staring without seeing. “But then again,” he mused, “I only said I’d look after myself if you did the same.” He reached out and touched Han’s shoulder, and he couldn’t stop himself from rubbing lightly through the cloth of his tunic, just short of a caress. 

 

“Let’s renew the pact,” he said suddenly. He gave a short bark of a laugh at the absurdity, but he pressed on, flashing a self-conscious smile. “I’ll look out for myself, if you do the same, and I’ll do better if you do, alright, partner?” He let go of Han’s shoulder and brushed the lock off his face and tucked it behind his ear. He was more than half-hoping the motion would provoke a response: a twitching eyebrow, a slight grimace, anything, really, that he could choose to interpret as Han reluctantly agreeing to his proposal.

 

But there was nothing. Han gave no sign whatsoever that he was the least bit aware that McCree was at his side.

 

Lin cleared his throat, and McCree immediately stood, Hana again flexing her claws through his shirt at the sudden movement. He felt a twinge of embarrassment sweep through him, but he batted it away, same as the guilt from earlier. He faced Lin, who had something small and white in his flesh hand. “Here. Leftovers from forty years ago,” Lin said, his voice a shade thicker than usual. He held it to McCree, who took it automatically. It was a piece of paper folded four or five times into segments along dotted lines and covered in Japanese characters. McCree stared at it without comprehending, prompting Lin to gruffly say, “Train tickets. Remember: Swamp Bottom, the sixt stop. The station is only a little vays down te track from the dock, away from te cliffs. Now go, and-” Lin hesitated for a moment. “-and send Shi down here as soon as you get him avay from tat monster, vhere he’ll be-” he trailed off. McCree met his look. Lin’s face was a strange mixture of worry and obstinacy, and McCree immediately understood what he left unsaid.

 

He slowly nodded as he dropped the seal and tickets into his tunic, the seal resting heavily against the sash around his waist. 

 

He glanced at the supervisor, who was kneeling by the door to the elevator motors, head bowed, staring at his hands clutching his knees. McCree took a deep breath and strode towards the door, calling out, “Alright. Time’s a wastin’. Let’s go.” 

 

The supervisor’s head jerked up and he scrambled to his feet. He threw out an arm to the sliding door and wrenched it open, waving McCree through first before struggling through it himself into the dark passageway beyond. McCree felt Hana hunker down a little when he entered the darkness, but the spark of light puffed up and threw weak illumination around them as he walked purposefully through the gap between motors towards the elevator, the supervisor puffing along behind him. If he was curious about McCree’s strange passengers, he didn’t mention it. 

 

The elevator was waiting; he entered and made sure to stand so that Hana and the spark were protected from the open back, even when the supervisor entered and crowded him a bit farther back than he would’ve liked.

 

McCree watched the paneling and crossbeams whip by. When they reached the staff areas, the hallways were dim, lit by sunlight that managed to make its way down the shafts and stairways and hallways, the colors muted and sober. The golden paneling of the hallway where the elevator stopped was washed out and pale, and there was no smell of cooking food coming from the kitchen they passed as they hurried to the next elevator that would take them to the footbridge over the baths. They were taking the same route as Shi had on McCree’s first night in the bathhouse.

 

An uncomfortable silence reigned as they stepped into the next elevator and began to rise. McCree decided to treat the journey as an impromptu runup to a mission, trying to formulate a strategy based on the supervisor’s description, but it was hard to think of how to fight a “shadow” that “consumed” its victims. Out of desperation he settled on thinking through how he would avoid a stealth assassin that heavily used poison gas grenades or canisters, but he had a feeling it would be a poor approximation. 

 

He grimaced. This was not how he usually acted in the moments preceding a mission. He was much more at home cracking jokes and making bets over the outcome, but going into a fight with so many unknowns, with Han and Shi hanging in the balance, with an enraged Amari waiting for him, and with the nervous and solemn supervisor looming in front of him, he was dispirited and mirthless. 

 

He felt Hana shift on his shoulder, and he looked down to see her regarding him with one large black eye. She sniffed and cocked her head, her long ears flopping limply over her back. He gave her a small smile and quietly murmured, ignoring the clench of his stomach at the mention of the name, “We’ll be seein’ Amari real soon. Don’ worry none, kid.” Her eye narrowed and he felt her claws pinch slightly into his shoulder. “Right, right, not a kid, sorry.” He raised his hands up halfway in mock surrender. She gave a curt nod in reply, which looked extremely odd coming from a rabbit. McCree scratched his head under his phantom hat before asking, keeping his voice as low as he could, “Do me a favor?” Another cock of her head. “If y’could, don’ mention my name t’Amari. I’m ‘Mac’ t’her. She, uh--she wouldn’ appreciate knowin’ me by any other name, if you know what I’m sayin’.” Hana responded with a slight tilt of her head before shaking it rather emphatically. “Y-y’don’? Know what I’m sayin’?” Another shake of the head, her ears sweeping over the high rise of her back as she huddled on his shoulder. “Oh. Uh. Then I guess you don’ know how Amari goes about hirin’ people?” She looked at him, unblinking. 

 

McCree suddenly stepped out of himself for a moment, considering the situation he was in. He was on his way to fighting a literal ghost that was holding a dragon hostage, with a giant bearded frog at his side, while holding a one-sided conversation with a rabbit on his shoulder.

 

He felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards a bit. It wasn’t his usual modus operandi, but he would take his humor anywhere he could get it.

 

The elevator slowed smoothly to a stop under the supervisor’s guidance. Light and noise poured in, a clamor of voices and the arrhythmic thudding of dozens of bare feet on wood. The entire room was brightly lit, as if a business day were in full swing, but instead of dozens of customers milling around, there were only staff, the frogs in their grey-blue tunics and the slugs in pink, white, and floral outfits, but all wearing similar expressions of stress and alarm. 

 

Much as Shi had done, the supervisor took the lead as they stepped out and headed out onto the footbridge. The tubs were clearly visible far below, with more staff surrounding them, but each tub stood empty and the air felt practically bone-dry in comparison to the humidity that usually pervaded the vast room. Almost everything from the emblemed wall panels to each bit of noise was uncharacteristically sharp and clear without the blurring or muffling steam. Only the smells were muted, the herbs and sulfur barely discernable in the empty air. McCree marveled at how much the scene threw him off, despite his having spent so little time there.

 

The supervisor screened him from sight much more effectively with his large bulk than Shi had. Unlike Shi, however, the supervisor was immediately surrounded by staff, each clamoring for news before they caught sight of McCree trailing behind him. They shrank away, some even hissing, but McCree was surprised when the supervisor drew himself up and barked in a most atypical sharp tone, “Enough! Away!” with an equally sharp glare at the hissers. It effectively silenced them, and when the scene repeated every few meters as they crossed the footbridge and treaded the hallway towards the next elevator, he continued to silence them before they got in more than a few hisses and angry words directed at McCree. McCree, for his part, kept a stony countenance. Hana crowded next to his neck, trying to shelter as much as possible under his shaggy hair.

 

Instead of calling the elevator, however, the supervisor made for the staircase that ran next to the elevator shaft. McCree, his senses already heightening, noted that although the elevator stopped here, the stairs continued down. After sending a few frogs and slugs that had been gathered at the landing scurrying away with a pointed rebuke, he glanced down at McCree and muttered, “It is only two floors up, Little Mac. Be ready.” 

 

McCree nodded and straightened, rolling his shoulders back and feeling Peacekeeper against his stomach. She was loaded with only three of the strange bullets the goddess of the hunt had left him. He would have to load the rest at the first opportunity, if one arose.

 

They climbed the stairs, the familiar feeling of fight-or-flight settling into McCree’s limbs, his senses sharpening as the adrenaline began to flow, the colors even more garish, the sounds even more piercing. Soon even a scent became apparent. At first it was familiar, the smell of sulfur intensifying as though they were approaching a full mineral soak or a volcanic vent, but as they ascended the last flight, another scent drifted down to meet them, one McCree knew far too well: the smell of burnt flesh; the smell of an oven left unattended for hours, as he preferred to think of it, or the smell of a battlefield, as it came to him in his nightmares.

 

Amari was waiting for them just off the landing, her back to them, facing the wide entrance of a long, well-lit hallway lined with sliding panels covered with golden, red, blue, and grey colors. She turned slowly at the sound of the supervisor’s heavy, hesitant tread.

 

“At last.” 

 

Hana had begun to surge forward when she caught sight of her, but she froze at the frosty tone that belied the red-hot rage splayed across her face. Amari took two long strides towards them, and McCree barely braced himself to receive the hard slap that swept across his cheek, feeling more than one ring strike against his teeth through his flesh. He was inordinately pleased that his brace was enough to keep from staggering, that his composure was enough to snap his head rigidly back into position, and that he knew her well enough to have half-expected it. He kept his face tolerably blank as his cheek throbbed and began to swell, the taste of blood blossoming in his dry mouth.

 

She, for her part, outright snarled at how well he took the hit, but she launched right into a tirade rather than go for another. 

 

“And here is the cause of all this! Do you know,  _ kalb barri _ , how much your idiocy has cost today?” McCree’s eye twitched as he wondered if she would try to claim that she cared for the lives of the workers who had fallen to the apparition’s clutches thus far. “Your  _ friend _ the goryō,” she spat, “has destroyed five rooms already between his tantrums and Shi’s idiotic  _ distractions _ . Every time I get near, he smashes through another expensive wall and waves that worthless  _ tanin’ _ s body-” McCree’s blood ran cold. “-around as if he expected me to care for him more than the wall, demanding to see  _ you _ .” Her narrowed dark eye was locked on his own, and the sheer force of hatred in her eyes was enough for a red haze to creep into the edges of his vision. 

 

He allowed his fists to clench and forced his breaths to deepen as they threatened to snuff shallowly through his flared nostrils. He was very close to throwing everything to the wind and shove her aside to go tearing down the hallway beyond, but he forced himself to ask, his deep, gravelly voice thick with suppressed and molten emotion, “What does he want with me?”

 

Amari’s eye widened slightly and she gave a short, bitter huff of a laugh. “Why, you’ll be  _ pleased _ to know that he comes to  _ rescue _ you!” Her voice was heavy with rage and laced with lilting sarcasm. “I had no idea that you had such friends available to you! How many humans can claim to have a spirit willing to consume more than twenty workers in a bid to force my hand?” McCree felt his chest tighten at the number of casualties, and a pang of guilt ran through him as he wondered if she was counting Shi among them. All such thoughts vanished under a wave of tightly controlled fear as Amari stepped closer and pressed a sharp, pointed nail against the center of his collarbone through his tunic. “But what he doesn’t know,” she said in a low hiss, “is that after you have informed him of the futility of his foolish endeavor and cast him out, not only will you still be here, but he will have ensured that you  _ never _ see the light of day, alive or dead,  _ ever _ again.” She stepped back, and her gaze was nothing less than venom.

 

She strode off to one side, stopping a short distance away. “He is waiting for you. He has helpfully left the door open where you may find him,” she said, suddenly business-like, now that she had her back to him. “Go and tell him he is not welcome here and get him out. I don’t care how you do it, so long as you keep damages low. That is more for your benefit,  _ kalb barri _ . You will pay ten times over for every  _ sen _ ’s worth of damage. Go.” 

 

McCree swallowed silently, but despite the frigid finality of the last word, he took one step towards her and held a hand up to Hana, beckoning her to step onto his palm with a slight twitch of his fingers. To his surprise, she didn’t, and he felt before he glanced down and saw how much she was shivering, her ears laid flat against her back and her black eyes wide. She met his glance and shook her head as she tried to shrink into the junction of his left shoulder and neck. Even the spark of light seemed to draw into itself, nestling between and below her ears.

 

He bit his lip. However awkward (and dangerous) it was going to be explaining Hana’s current state to Amari was only getting worse with Hana’s reluctance. Still, he cleared his throat and managed a quiet “Ma’am?” that forced Amari to turn brusquely around, her expression leaving no doubt to how little she thought of his daring to speak after her clear dismissal. He resisted the urge to bit his lip again before he gestured at Hana. “I, uh-” 

 

Amari cut him off after a quick glance at the quivering ball of pink fur. “How much vermin do you plan to bring into my bathhouse,  _ kalb barri _ ?” He flinched as Hana dug her claws into his skin. “If you do not offer it to the goryō as a treat to keep him off you, I will snap its neck if you return. Now,  _ go _ .” This time he had no time to react as her hand lashed out and traced the familiar gesture in mid-air. He gasped as the invisible hook wrenched at his sternum and threw him forward into the hallway. 

 

The motion was so sudden he nearly left Hana behind, but she managed to stay on his shoulder, drawing blood as she clung to his shoulder. The hook disappeared in less than a second, but McCree was already thrown off balance. He twisted as best as he could so he could land heavily on his right side, his flesh arm pinned below him as he fought to keep her as sheltered from the jolt as he possibly could.

 

He lay there for a pair of seconds, breathing hard, until he felt her claws relax slightly, the sharp pinch lessening into a dull ache as he felt a thin warm trickle of blood run underneath his tunic into his undershirt. He sat up slowly, glancing blearily around him as he absentmindedly cupped Hana with his right hand. He was a full three meters into the hallway now, and from the new angle he could see that the reds, blues, and greys visible from outside were disturbingly elaborate and detailed murals of demons rampaging up and down the hallway amid thunderclouds and lightning, their wide eyes and gaping mouths trained on whomever treaded down the hall. Behind him, he could see the red-painted railing of the staircase, but no one was in his line-of-sight. 

 

The smell of sulfur and ashen flesh was far stronger, but not yet overpowering.

 

He looked down at Hana, still trembling and curled into his neck. “You alright there, honey?” She fixed him with one fear-filled eye as a shudder ran through her tiny body, as she glanced back towards the entrance of the hallway. Seeing no one, she visibly relaxed and gave a tremulous nod. He sighed and looked away, rubbing the bruises forming on his right arm with his metal hand. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I expected at all. I was sure she would--well. Maybe I should’ve known she wouldn’ be in a listenin’ mood, especially where I’m concerned.” He struggled somewhat haphazardly to his feet and turned back to the entrance. “Well, she’s gonna listen, even if I gotta-” 

 

Hana screamed, a sound McCree had heard enough times in the dark nights of the New Mexican desert when a coyote landed a lucky strike on a jackrabbit just outside the flickering light of the bonfire. It brought him up short, and he instinctively dropped into a crouch as he looked around wildly, expecting a wave of darkness to be crashing down on him as it had in the hallway outside the big tub.  

 

But the hallway was empty but for themselves; he looked down at Hana, feeling frustration build in him. “Now what? I gotta take you t’her before I go and-” Hana dug her claws back into his shoulder and shook her head furiously, enough to make her ears snap repeatedly as they dragged across her back, one turning inside out from the abuse. 

 

He stared at her, mind working, trying to puzzle out what, exactly, she thought she was doing. “Look,  _ Hana _ ,” he said, voice lowering in warning. “I dunno what you’re tryin’ here, but you gotta go back t’Amari if you want her t’turn you back, and she’s  _ right there _ , so we’re goin’ right-ow! Dammit!” He had been reaching to tug her off his shoulder and into his hand, but she had simultaneously dug her claws in,  _ deep _ , and snapped at his flesh fingers with her impressively large incisors. She caught only air, but he was sure it was more his quick reflexes that saved his fingertips than her intention to miss. She was crouching low on his shoulder now, incisors still bared as she looked at him sidelong, focused on his glowering face with a black eye that was now far more determined than fearful. 

 

They stared at each other for a pair of seconds before McCree growled, “There is no way in _hell_ you’re comin’ with me, little girl.” Her eye narrowed and her claws, if it was possible, dug in deeper. The cloth around her feet was becoming damp. His eyes narrowed and he sprung to his feet. But instead of heading for the entrance, he spun on his heel and headed deeper within, fuming as he went. “I don’ have _time_ for your _shit_ , but if you don’ wanna go t’Amari now, then you are stayin’ somewhere safe and hidden until you’re ready, you spoiled brat!” His eyes narrowed as he spied a pair of open doors about fifteen meters away on the right side of the hallway, the green face of a smiling demon split in half on either side of the empty space. He immediately slowed and carefully inched open the next pair of doors on his left. A small antechamber, lit with streetlamp-like floor lamps, answered his view, a yellow snake-like creature with wide eyes splashed across another pair of door that led further in. He glanced around quickly. No sign of danger, no sign of recent occupation. 

 

He quickly shrugged out of his left sleeve as he once again dropped to his knees. Hana squeaked in alarm as the shifting and suddenly formless fabric torn her away from McCree’s skin, and she tumbled off. He caught her lightly, and she immediately began scrambling for purchase on his palm. Before she could do anything more, he unceremoniously dropped her a few centimeters onto the floor. The spark of light was jostled loose from her back, and it rose on blurred wings, bobbing up and down rather indignantly. He paid it no mind, however, focusing on Hana, who had scrambled to her feet with surprisingly deep grunting noises for her size. He waited until she made eye contact, then he stabbed a finger in the general direction of the antechamber with his flesh hand, his metal fingers already searching around at the folds of cloth around his sash. “Stay here,” he barked. “If anyone but me comes--actually, scratch that. If I can, I’m sendin’ Shi t’get you out of here. He’s got scars all over, green eyes, black hair. If anyone else comes, you hide or you make a goddamned good effort at lettin’ ‘em know who you are.” Before she could do anything more than squeak and gather herself to leap forward, he slid the doors closed with a snap. 

 

He stood, waiting a few moments to see if she had the strength to slid the doors open. One door rattled slightly as she seemed to throw her weight against it, but it didn’t move. He gave an impatient huff, then turned and stalked slowly towards the open doors further down the hall, hugging the right wall. As he went, he mentally ticked off one, two, three bullets before he threaded his prosthesis back through his sleeve while reaching down the front of his tunic with his other arm. A thrill of relief and a rush of adrenaline coursed through him as he withdrew Peacekeeper from within the tunic and shook off the thick cloth Bastion had lent him to cover it. 

 

Ay, Dios mío, he thought as his fingers wrapped around the grip. After all that bullshit, she felt good in his hand.

 

He slid the cylinder open and placed the final three bullets into the chambers before gently easing it closed with a small but satisfying click. He took a steadying breath. He was approaching the open doors. Each breath brought the ever-stronger odor of volcanic ash, the stench of a battlefield in flames. The air began to feel coarse in his lungs, like breathing in a fine dust of salt crystals. 

 

For the first time in days, he longed for a cigarillo. Anything, even the acrid, plastic smell of bioengineered tobacco, was preferable to freshly charred skin and hair.

 

Slowly, he sidled past the thick lips and white teeth of the split face of the demon and peeked around the edge of the door. He slowly breathed out, not knowing whether to be pleased or not at the sight of an antechamber identical to the one he’d left Hana in, except the walleyed gaze and fangs of a corpulent red demon was spread across the sliding doors on the other side of the small room.

 

At the very least, he had been granted one last reprieve, one last opportunity to consider his options before facing the apparition. Despite Amari’s words, he was rather hopeful that this was still a hostage situation, that Shi was yet the apparition’s prisoner rather than a meal.

 

He edged into the antechamber, glancing in all directions, right, left, up, down, front and behind. He approached the doors, pressed his back to the wall alongside one, grimaced as he felt that it was as thin and fragile as the doors themselves. 

 

In a hostage situation with zero surveillance available, you did all you could not to surprise the assailant.

 

He reached out and tapped loudly on the door.

 

“It’s me. It’s Mac. I’ve come. I’m comin’ in.” 

 

And in a hostage situation, you never took your weapon off the assailant.

 

He slid the door open one-handed, Peacekeeper up and at the ready. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead, but his gun hand was dry. Devastation greeted him as the door slid open.

 

The room was meant to be some sort of dining hall, if the splintered and shattered remains of the furniture and tableware were any indication. They were scattered and piled up at random, like the piles of debris in Hana’s mecha amphitheater, but somehow even more twisted and mutilated. The panels on the walls, covered with yet more depictions of demonic entities, were shredded and hanging off the walls in torn folds. The walls opposite him revealed familiar plaster and beams behind them. To his right he could see into the next room, where similar destruction could be glimpsed. And to his left-

 

“Took you long enough.”

 

A deep bass voice, rough, as if unused for twenty years of solitude, only slightly muffled and distorted by the skeletal avian mask that stared out from within the cavern of his hood, the words slow and meticulous, as if each syllable was an effort to pronounce. 

 

McCree preferred his silence.

 

He swiveled, zeroing in on the mask with laserpoint accuracy. He was in the corner, as solid as he’d ever seemed to McCree, when he was visible at all. McCree sucked in a breath through his nose, despite the almost visible stench. 

 

Shi’s green eyes blinked at him from between the claws of the metal gauntlet pressed across his face as the apparition held Shi’s arms twisted behind him while positioning Shi’s body in front of himself, a classic human shield. 

 

Internally McCree’s gut tightened. Externally he gave a small nod of greeting over Peacekeeper. “Afternoon. Sorry for the delay.” 

 

The apparition snorted, a small but explosive sound in the destroyed room. “Nice gun,” he ground out. “Standard issue for bathhouse workers?” The apparition’s tone was smug.

 

“It’s jus’ for guests who’ve outstayed their welcome. You, for example.” McCree’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you doing this? What’s got you so interested in me?” 

 

He saw the claws tighten over Shi’s face. Shi shuddered and blinked rapidly at the movement even as one claw came dangerously close to one eye, forcing it to close. The apparition let out a hissing breath, and McCree tensed as a small cloud black smoke wound around the lower edges of the white mask. “You asked. I’m here to deliver.”

 

“I  _ never _ asked for your help.” McCree didn’t take his eyes off the empty eyeholes that sunk from the edges of the mask into the void behind.  The apparition hissed, but McCree pressed on. “Think back,  _ friend, _ ” his drawl thickened and drew out the last word, emphasizing its unfriendly tone, “I distinctly remember tellin’ you that you  _ couldn _ ’ help, and I sure as hell never asked you t’hurt all those people.” 

 

“Those  _ people _ ,” spat the apparition, “were pond scum. They’re only good for fuel, and I’ve got enough in the tank to take on anything Amari can throw at me, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

 

McCree’s eyes darkened. “I’m worried about the people you ate, that’s all,” he replied, not trying to keep the disgust out of his voice. “Why are you doin’ this? You seem mighty interested in me and my welfare. Don’ try and pin this on me again. Why?”

 

The apparition was silent for several long moments. “I--don’t know.”

 

“You don’ know,” repeated McCree, flatly.

 

Even through the mask, the scowl was evident. “No. I don’t know why I’m wasting time on you, but I am.” He kneed one of Shi’s legs, forcing him forward. “It’s enough that I am. Now, I’ll take care of Amari. You stay-”

 

“No.” 

 

The apparition paused. “No?” 

 

McCree raised an eyebrow. “No. Here’s what’s goin’ t’happen: you let Shi go. I escort you to the entrance. You leave and never come back. Try anythin’, and you get a new hole in that mask of yours.” 

 

“You’re threatening me? I’m your ticket out of here, ingrate!” McCree fought the urge to step back out of fear or forward out of concern for Shi when black smoke began pouring off the apparition. It refused to thin as it fell to the floor with a faint sound like fine sand flowing down a dune, creating a pool of darkness around his metal boots and Shi’s stockinged feet. Shi let out a small noise. 

 

McCree clicked the hammer back. “No. You’re not,” he said with forced calmness. “Frankly, you’re diggin’ my grave with all your bullshit. And yours, too. Let him go, then you go.”

 

The apparition cocked its head slightly. “If I go, you’re coming with me,  _ vaquero. _ ”

 

No other word, no other tone of voice, no other blindside would have been enough. Peacekeeper dropped only a fraction, McCree’s eyes widened only a little, but it was all the apparition needed. He shoved Shi down and forward with a sharp motion, driving his face into the floor before he burst into a whirlwind of dense smoke that darted across the floor, snakelike. McCree followed the motion with Peacekeeper, but the shock wouldn’t let him back up fast enough, wouldn’t let him decide where to shoot, wouldn’t let him to do more than gasp when the smoke reformed into two steel-clawed gauntlets that simultaneously tore Peacekeeper from his grip and wrapped around his neck.

 

Peacekeeper clattered somewhere in the distance.

 

His fingers clumsily tugged at the apparition’s wrists even as the other hand joined its twin pressing against his windpipe. He could distantly feel his legs kicking in mid-air

 

His vision was clearing and darkening; the smoke was seeping back into a solid mass of muscle and maleficence as the edges of his sight creeped inward. 

 

His lips moved, trying to form the name. He was staring into the black void of the eyeholes, into nothingness, but there should have been something there. There was no other source of that word, so packed with meaning. 

 

_ “¿En serio? ¿Éste? ¿Un niño jugando a ser vaquero desafió a diez de mis agentes? Mmm. ¿Y qué me dices, vaquero? ¿Qué hubieras hecho con un poquito más tiempo?  _

 

_ “¿Qué harías con un poquito más aún?” _

 

There should be something shining brown and bright, whether it was bright with humor, bright with rage, bright with the cynical wisdom that comes from living half in the day and half in the night, that came with mingling with the humble and the arrogant, the underappreciated diamonds in the rough and the overvalued dregs of humanity, the brightness that had fixed upon him as he sat handcuffed to a table in a half-lit cell, the brightness that had illuminated and found what he hadn’t been able to see himself. Where was it? It had to be there. 

 

The darkness in his vision closed in on the darkness of those eyeholes. 

 

A scream and a yell drove it back a little. Both were familiar, one high-pitched and animal, the other booming and masculine.

 

A streak of pink leapt into view, with a small flash of white before sharp incisors dug into the wrists he himself was still gripping, just shy of his own slackening fingers. 

 

Hana continued to scream around her mouthful of apparition as she scratched and tore with all four legs, her claws trailing thick smoke with each movement. Even as close as she was to McCree’s eyes, she was tiny against the overwhelming force of her target, and for all her efforts, all she seemed to have won was a dark chuckle as the head turned, the hoodie swaying slightly. 

 

But by luck or design, she was also an excellent distraction.

 

McCree couldn’t see Shi approach, but his first strike knocked the apparition’s head to the side and provided him with a less obstructed view of his second, third, and fourth strikes, all in the space of the single gasp he drew in when the hands around his neck loosened. The “sword” was a stout table leg, but it still shattered with Shi’s final blow over the apparition’s broad back. With a grunt and a curse, the apparition fell to his knees, and Shi wasted no time spinning on his heel and roundhouse kicking him to the side with a speed too fast for McCree to register.

 

For a single insane moment, Hana floated before him in mid-air, legs still scrambling, a stream of blood dripping to the floor in a hair-thin line. Then he registered the spark of light, wings once more blurred and almost invisible, holding her aloft by the nape of her neck. Then his mind kicked back into high-gear.

 

“Peacek-” he blurted as he scrambled to his feet, cut off as Shi shoved her into his chest while grabbing his tunic and yanking him towards the door. “C’mon, honey!” he said instead, grabbing for Hana, but the spark was already ahead him and out of reach, heading in the same direction. He glanced over his shoulder and blanched. The apparition was lying on his side, shoulders heaving, but the empty eyeholes were fixed on them, and he was already dissolving into a thick bank of impenetrable smoke with a hiss. 

 

“ _ Ingrate! _ ”

 

“Run!” Shi shouted. 

 

Yes, thought McCree as he sprang over destroyed furniture towards the still wide-open sliding doors and the antechamber and hallway beyond. Shi and Hana had to get away; there was no telling what the apparition would do to them. 

 

But the apparition was--

 

He watched Shi pass through the antechamber, the spark keeping pace despite its tiny size, Hana swinging wildly in its grip. Before he crossed into the antechamber himself, he spun around.  _ He _ had to get  _ them _ away. He raised Peacekeeper, aiming for the white mask even as it melting into tendrils of haze, obscured by the current of smoke rushing forward, towards him.

 

The Deadlock and the Blackwatch in him united, urging him to pull the trigger. He was toying with you, whispered the Deadlock. He’s obviously not what he was, added the Blackwatch, he’s killed innocents. End his rampage now.

 

Time slowed. Red and gold creeped into his vision. His thumb hovered over the hammer, ready to fan it. His target was massive; it would be like hitting the broad side of a barn, if only he knew where the vitals of the broad side of a barn were. The mask would be a good start, even as it teetered on the edge of his visibility behind the screen of gritty swirling ash.

 

But somewhere, in the forefront but still muted, a part of his thoughts wondered: can you save one more?

 

And a hand touched his gun hand, a thin finger sweeping over his own finger poised on the trigger. An arm pressed against his, mirroring his stance. Another arm was draped over his left shoulder, another hand taking hold of his chin ever-so-gently. He was already rock-steady despite his fears and his doubts, Dead-Eye permitted nothing less, but the touch wasn’t to provide stability. 

 

“Fear not,  _ mon cher ami _ .”

 

One shot. Two shots. Right at the mask. It snapped back, disappearing from view.

 

“Today is not the day for the kill.” 

 

Three shots. Four shots. The hand on his chin guided his head a little further to the left. Peacekeeper followed. The shots sliced through the haze where the chest would be.

 

“ _ Prise et relâche _ .”

 

Five shots. Six shots. To the abdomen, if it existed somewhere, nestled in the fumes.

 

Her touch disappeared. 

 

The smoke roiled. It surged forward only to pull back, like hot oil in a wok. A wave seemed to pass through the whole mass before it suddenly contracted. And as it receded--

 

Like driftwood left by the receding tide, the body of a slug appeared, clad in a floral kimono, bright and stark against the smoke flowing around her like water. Just behind her was a frog appeared as the smoke drew away. And another frog. Then two more.

 

Behind them all, in the corner of the room, a familiar shape took form, the white mask sharp from beneath the hood that flopped inelegantly across one eyehole. The broad shoulders were heaving, rattling breaths evident even through the mask. The void in the visible eyehole was fixed on him.

 

“You-” The word was dripping with hatred.

 

This was it. A chance to get a headstart. A chance to get Shi and Hana to safety. A chance to lead him out of the bathhouse. 

 

Maybe even a chance to save him.

 

“Come and get me.” He turned and ran. 

 

“Mac!” It was hard to tell how much time had passed. It was hard to tell if he’d even used Dead-Eye. But however long he had stood there, by the time he rounded the corner into the hall, Shi and Hana had had time to notice he wasn’t following them, to stop and turn halfway, Shi’s face contorted with fear and Hana’s eyes wide enough to show the white sclera even in her rabbit form as she hung in mid-air.

 

“Go! Head for the footbridge!” McCree shouted. He could have howled in utter frustration when neither moved until he was almost on top of them. Only then did they match his pace alongside him, thoroughly wasting their headstart. 

 

They burst out of the hallway and headed for the stairs. McCree had barely placed his foot on the first step when a distant howl of rage raced out of the hallway after them, followed by the sound of beams of wood snapping with deep reports like cannons that drowned out the tearing and ripping sound of paper and paneling being stripped from their moorings.

 

It sounded like a tornado was bearing down on them.

 

“ _ Not in my house, ghoul! _ ”

 

“No! Amari, don-” McCree tried to stop and turn, but he was mid-stride while skipping three steps and Shi shamelessly used it to his advantage, grabbing McCree’s arm and using his own bodyweight to hurl them down. They crashed to the bottom of that flight, McCree half-sprawled across the floor, but Shi had somehow kept his footing and with a wrench that nearly dislocated McCree’s shoulder, he swung them around and almost literally threw them both down the next flight. Above them, there was another report, not the sharp crack of thick timber splintering, but the dull boom of an explosion.

 

The group skittered and stumbled down the next flight and onto the landing of the footbridge level. All around them frogs and slugs were screaming and running, their feet pounding across the wooden floors above and below and all around. McCree regained his footing and sprinted to the railing that overlooked the baths, twisting around and craning his neck, trying to see what was happening two floors above. He thought he could see a faint fringe of black smoke, flitting out over the railing. “Hey!  _ Hey! _ Down here!” he hollered. “Come get me, you yellow-bellied bastard!” 

 

The railing two floors above exploded outward under the onslaught of black smoke, looking more like a literal explosion than anything else, sending the pieces arcing out over the baths. McCree jerked back and retreated at full speed to the staircase. “Go!  _ Gogogo! _ ” he screamed at Shi and Hana who had, once again, defied logic and reason and waited for him. Together they went, the spark giving off a high-pitched hum while McCree’s chest heaved under the exertion and adrenaline. Even Shi seemed affected, his mouth open agape as they ran and stumbled three, four, five steps at a time, rounding the switchbacks to the next flight with skidding feet. Above, close and getting closer, booms and cracks of splintering wood chased after them. McCree, mind working in the wonderful clarity that was the Overwatch agent on the battlefield, was thankful that their pursuer was apparently rabid enough to follow them directly down the staircase rather than go out into the vast space overlooking the baths and drop straight down.

 

However, if memory served, this staircase ended at the-

 

Before he could finish the thought, he could see for himself that the staircase ended, the open reception rooms opening on either side and the entrances to the baths straight ahead. 

 

“Lead him out!” gasped Shi, already pushing to the right as he prepared to make for the entrance of the bathhouse itself. 

 

“No!” McCree forced out. “He’s gotta go with me!” 

 

“ _ What?! _ ”

 

“ _ Trust me! _ We gotta get to the bridge over the rails!” He jumped down the last four steps, landed heavily but kept his balance, and made for the entrance to the staff areas, the way miraculously clear of workers. Whatever Shi’s doubts were, he elected to keep to McCree’s side. 

 

They had just made it past the supervisor’s little kiosk when the supervisor himself appeared in the entrance. “Little Shi! Little Mac!” Then his bulbous eyes widened. “Behind you!” McCree glanced over his shoulder. For all the world, it seemed like a veritable volcanic eruption was pouring out of the staircase after them, a pyroclastic flow of wrath. He couldn’t tell if he was imagining the sullen red glow coming from within the dark mass of smoke.

 

“Rhine! No, don’t!” 

 

Shi’s panicked yell didn’t come in time for McCree to whip his head around. The supervisor was already past him, a massive arm braced across his chest, the other thrown out wide. “Go, little ones!” he shouted as he barrelled forward. “I will slow it down!” McCree tried to stop, tried to fling out a hand to stop him, raised an ineffectual and empty Peacekeeper, but Rhine had already met the flow, leaning forward as he plowed into the smoke. 

 

Except he run into something more substantial than smoke.

 

The pyroclastic flow burst apart, smoky tendrils finally lightening from impenetrable black into shades of grey as they were thrown away from the point of impact with Rhine. Rhine himself disappeared only briefly into the haze before he reappeared, fallen to the ground, groaning as he clutched his chest and stomach as the smoke was thrown back like a fan of water splashing back from a stone.

 

All around him, stirring faintly, were more slugs and frogs.

 

Shi let out a gasp. “How-?” 

 

McCree cut him off. “He’s still there, see him? We gotta keep him movin’. Hey!” he called. The apparition had consolidated himself out of the smoke again, this time on his knees, his clawed gauntlets pressing against his head through the hood, trembling. He looked up at McCree, who, struck by a sudden wave of giddiness, waved at him with giant sweeps of his hand. “Over here! Giving up? Or waiting for Amari to catch up?” 

 

The apparition snarled, but it was forced, even more so than it had been upstairs, like he could barely get the sound past his throat. “You--think--” The words ended in another snarl as the apparition struggled to his feet and surged forward, smoke pouring from his body once more, but instead of forming a huge formless mass, the smoke merely hugged his legs.

 

McCree and Shi turned on their heels and headed full speed through the entrance to the staff areas and the staircase beyond, sending various slugs and frogs scattering for the exits, some of them tripping and falling in their haste. McCree glanced over his shoulder to make sure nothing happened to them, but he was fairly sure the apparition was too focused on him to pay any more attention to his coworkers. And indeed, he charged past them without a second glance, entirely focused on McCree.

 

McCree felt himself relax a minute amount.

 

They descended rapidly, passing the staff amenities through a cacophony of screams and curses as the crowd gathered there caught sight of them and their pursuer. More than ever, McCree wished for safety rails and he anxiously waited for at least one slug or frog to be jostled into empty air, but not a single person’s luck seemed to have run out. Each worker managed to dash out of sight, and the noise of the crowd slowly died away as they led the apparition further and further down into the depths of the bathhouse.

 

Hana was the first to notice they were leaving him behind. 

 

She had no need of watching her step as the spark kept abreast of the two men, so she gave a series of sharp squeaks to catch their attention, pointing up insistently with both front paws. Indeed, the apparition, though single-mindedly and doggedly following them, was had slowed down. He was already a full three stories behind, forcing them to stop and wait for him to catch up. McCree eyed him warily as he made his way down, his metal boots clacking heavily, loudly, and unsteadily on each step. It was hard to tell while craning his neck from far below, but it seemed to McCree like the apparition was still pressing his clawed gauntlets to his head, as if in pain.

 

They were unwilling to let him come too close, but when he was a single flight above them, Hana dropped onto McCree’s shoulder for a moment so the spark could adjust its grip so she could face backward and keep lookout as they all continued down. Nevertheless, McCree kept glancing behind to reassure himself that the apparition hadn’t snuck away.

 

McCree could feel the adrenaline in his blood simmering down as they continued the strange, low speed chase. His breathing slowed almost to normal.

 

Shi took this as permission to began his interrogation. 

 

“Han?” he began in a whisper, with no little trepidation.

 

“Alive, barely.” McCree glanced from the apparition a flight above them to Shi, also keeping his voice down. “I, uh--I had a time gettin’ him to Lin, and he almost died, but when I left the boiler room Lin said he had a chance.”

 

Shi nodded slowly. “That’s--that’s good. What-” He stopped and cleared his throat, throwing a glance of his own above them, although McCree suspected it was more to break eye contact than to check on their pursuer. “When did you get your gun back?” he said instead.

 

“You didn’ notice? I’ve had it since we checked on Lin. Bastion was holdin’ on to it for me.” 

 

Shi narrowed his eyes, quirking the scar over his eye questioningly. “How did Bastion get it?” 

 

“Ah, well--that, that was Han, too. He saved, uh, everythin’ really. Clothes and all.”

 

Shi stared straight ahead of them. “Oh.” He was silent for a moment. McCree fidgeted. “Han has--he’s changed. A lot.” Shi’s voice was far away, contemplative. “He used to be pretty callous towards humans. Didn’t see any reason to interact with them beyond ruling them.” 

 

“Really?” McCree said thoughtfully as he ran all their interactions. “He was a bit testy when we first met, when he tried t’get me out and then sneak me in. Like he just wanted me t’shut up and do what he said. Been pretty nice since then, though. Patient. Thoughtful.” 

 

“Hmm.” There was a distinct note of surprise and doubt in Shi’s voice.

 

Another moment of silence.

 

“What are you going to do with it?” Shi asked, pointing up. They had long since reached the shaft where the flights of stairs crisscrossed from one side to the other. The apparition was still a flight above them, still plodding after them, stumbles increasingly evident in his gait. Hana had her narrowed eyes trained upwards.

 

McCree bit his lip before he reluctantly answered. “I’m takin’ him with me.” 

 

“Taking-where?!” Shi yelped, his voice echoing up and down the shaft.

 

“Shh, shh,” hushed McCree, his hands half-raised as he threw a look upwards. “It’s a little complicated. Amari sent Han t'steal a seal from Fareeha, and she-”

 

“From  _ Fareeha? _ ” Shi swore quietly under his breath, looking up, beyond their pursuer. “No wonder,” he said quietly. “No wonder.” 

 

McCree sighed. “Yeah. I got the seal, so-”

 

Shi stopped in mid-step. “ _ You _ have it?” 

 

McCree felt his own trepidation rising. “Yeah. And?”

 

“ _ And? _ Does Amari know?”

 

“Nah. She must have thought Han didn’ get it. One more reason she wouldn’ help him, I reckon.” 

 

“Then--it’s enough to--” 

 

“No, it ain’t.” McCree stared straight ahead and continued down, forcing Shi to follow. “I’ve already discussed this with Lin. I’m--well, I’m already in it as far as Amari’s concerned. I figure she’ll be too busy dealing with the aftermath t’come after me right away, so I’m gonna get over t’Swamp Bottom, and uh--” 

 

Shi regarded him, his eyes narrowed and sharp. “You can’t be serious.” 

 

“I am.”

 

“It’s enough, for you and your commander.” 

 

“Yep.” 

 

“What more--”

 

“One-uh, two more.” McCree bit his lip, damning his big mouth. He glanced at Shi out of the corner of his eye, but Shi’s face had gone mask-like, more so, almost, than his actual mask. McCree could guess why. The way he’d slipped up almost made it sound like he had intended to free just one of the brothers, rather than two. “Look, Shi, I didn’ mean-I mean, Han-” 

 

“Does Bastion have your clothes?” Shi asked suddenly, stiffly. 

 

McCree felt something sink in the pit of his stomach. “Uh, yeah.” 

 

“Do you think it’s safe if I go ahead? I’ll grab your clothes. You’ll want them for the journey. You’re taking the train?” 

 

“Uh, yeah. Look, Shi-” 

 

“Another promise broken.” 

 

McCree looked at Shi, aghast. “Wha-he-” 

 

Shi had a tiny, forced smile on his lips. “Lin always said he’d use those tickets when he and I were freed to get out of here. Old fart never keeps his promises. Anyway. I’ll go on ahead. I’ll grab your stuff and meet you at the dock.” 

 

McCree forced himself to speak. “The bridge. The bridge over the rails.” 

 

Shi looked at him doubtingly. “The bridge? You can’t-” 

 

“I can, actually. But look, Shi, I gotta tell ya-” 

 

“The bridge, then. See you there.” And Shi trotted off ahead of McCree, skipping the steps three at a time. 

 

McCree watched him go and silently cursed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: Hana read "Watership Down" when she was far too young, and that's why she chose a bunny motif when she joined MEKA. Rabbits are badass, yo.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, and sorry for the delay, if you've been waiting! The election was--disheartening, to say the least. Writing lost its charm for a while, plus I was nervous about this chapter (BECAUSE REAPER), but I'll just try to plow through it from now on.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> ¿En serio? ¿Éste? ¿Un niño jugando a ser vaquero desafió a diez de mis agentes? Mmm. ¿Y qué me dices, vaquero? ¿Qué hubieras hecho con un poquito más tiempo?  
> Seriously? Him? A child playing at being a cowboy defeated ten of my agents? Hmm. What do you have to say, cowboy? What could you have done with a little more time?
> 
> ¿Qué harías con un poquito más aún?  
> What would you do with a little more yet?
> 
> Prise et relâche.  
> Catch and release.


	10. Catching a Ride and Finally Talking

McCree almost missed the floor with the storage rooms, the dishwashing station, and the door to the dock. He was too busy watching Shi descend the last flights to the bottom of the shaft, biting and worrying at his bottom lip and shifting Peacekeeper in his grip as Shi skipped steps in his sudden rush. He had to reach out and shepherd the spark of light back to follow him when it made to continue without him, Hana squeaking a little in surprise as she swung wildly in its grip.

 

He paused on the landing, glancing between Shi and the apparition, warring within himself. On one hand he wanted to say to hell with Han’s “secret” and call out to Shi and explain exactly why he only needed to free one more person, but the apparition was already on the last flight and descending right towards him. He could keep going down to try and catch up with Shi and ultimately lead the apparition out through the boiler room, but he was unwilling to expose Lin and Bastion to possible danger. Indeed, the apparition gave a long hiss when he raised his head from observing his own feet and saw McCree standing indecisively below.

 

McCree glared back. “Shove it, old man,” he said, a little too automatically.

 

Now the apparition paused. They stared at each other for a moment before a bit of black smoke drifted out from beneath the mask and the apparition tried to ground out, “What--did--”

 

“I said, ‘shove it.’ Now c’mon,” said McCree tiredly, turning and walking into the dusty hallway behind him, unable to keep the memories and suspicions from rising within him.

 

_“You seem pretty invested. You were ready to dive into the water to save a five-meter-long dragon. Why?”_

_“I don’ know.”_

_“You ‘don’t know’?”_

_“No, I don’.”_

 

_“Why are you doin’ this? You seem mighty interested in me and my welfare. Why?”_

_“I--don’t know.”_

_“You don’ know.”_

_“No. I don’t know why I’m wasting time on you, but I am.”_

 

Life was a funny thing sometimes, McCree thought, rubbing his face with his flesh hand. A mighty funny thing.

 

The spark of light buzzed forward a little ahead just in time for him to see Hana raise two claws to her face in the “I’m watching you” gesture. He chuckled tiredly. “Glad you got your eye on him, kid.” Hana didn’t take her eyes off her target, but he didn’t miss the eye twitch. A small smile grew on his face. He’d probably be paying for that later.

 

The hallway was bright with diffuse sunlight pouring in through the dustcaked windows; even the storerooms themselves were well-lit, revealing the stacks of crates and innumerable packages crowded on shelving. McCree shivered when he saw, in two or three of the storerooms, some shelves and crates knocked over, their contents spilled across the floor. He glanced over his shoulder each time, staring unblinking right at the eyeholes of the mask trailing behind. If the apparition cared, he gave no sign.

 

He had never been this far down the hallway from this end before, and it was much longer than he had thought. It turned twice, once right, once left, before he caught sight of the heavy green door that led to the outside, the dark entrance to the dishwashing station yawning to the side. The sound of waves echoed quietly up and down the hallway.

 

He glanced in the dishwashing station, too, while gripping and turning the doorknob and heaving the door open. It seemed nobody had been in there since him and Shi, the broken pottery still scattered across the floor and mixing with the still-drying pools of blood. The scent of iron was weak, however, because of the slight breeze wafting in through the broken windows, still cool and fresh and clean from the rain the day before, but now with a distinct component of the smell of lakewater, with a growing edge of wet plant matter, like approaching a well-irrigated marsh.

 

McCree couldn’t help but breathe deep as he stepped out, in and out. He felt his nerves settle as if he’d breathed out the last of the adrenaline from the battle out into the clear air.

 

He held the door open, waiting for the apparition. Hana and the spark backed away from the doorway, Hana still maintaining her vigilance. As they waited, McCree glanced up to the suspension bridge that carried the great steel cylinder that enclosed the water pipes across the train tracks and into the bathhouse from the pumping station. It entered the building right next to them, and McCree soon spied two metal ladders set into side of the irregular concrete blocks that led up to top of the cylinder.

 

Route decided, he let his eyes wander out over the water spreading out from the foundations of the bathhouse to the blurry horizon capped with white-and-grey clouds. The sun was slowly falling, low enough to be brilliantly reflected in an elongated multitude of eye-searing dots on the water’s surface. It was only two or three hours to sunset. He bit his lip, wishing he’d asked Lin if he knew how long the trip to Swamp Bottom was and thankful to Shi for offering to bring him his clothes. It was going to be a windy trip, and he’d want his serape.

 

He turned to watch the apparition approach.

 

“Hurry it up. We gotta train t’catch, you and me,” he drawled. The apparition was only a couple of meters away, but it stiffened.

 

“What--are--you--” he growled, just on the edge of puffing out each word. McCree raised an eyebrow.

 

“I’m thinkin’ you’re better off outta here, and I’ve got an errand t’run. You can come with, for a while, s’long as you behave yourself.” He raised a finger and waggled it at him. “Jus’ keep in mind that you’re on thin ice, G-, uh. Mister.”

 

The eyeholes were as empty as ever, but McCree could feel the scrutinization all the same. The apparition took a hesitant step, then resumed his slow gait until he drew even with McCree. “At--least you’ll be--out--”

 

McCree snorted. “I’m comin’ back. It’s an errand, not an escape attempt.”

 

He only allowed the apparition to growl in reply before he turned away and let the door slam closed and strode toward the first ladder. He scurried up one, then the other before more or less crawling onto the crest of the round surface before getting to his feet. Hana and the spark were at his side in a moment, but the apparition took a few minutes, metal boots clanging against each rung. While he made his way up, McCree walked along the length of the bridge until he was directly above the rails, facing towards the cliffside. The tracks led to the dark foreboding entrance of the tunnel bored into the foundation of the cliffside in two parallel and straight lines with no curve whatsoever, to his relief. It was surprising how much centrifugal force even a small curve could create, but it looked like there would be none to counteract today. It was going to be quite the drop of course, around ten meters, but nothing he hadn’t done before.

 

He turned to Hana. “So, this is goodb--whoa, there!” Hana had begun to scramble in midair as if trying to take a swipe. McCree chuckled, then sobered. “Now look, honey, I can’ be takin’ you with me.” Hana stuck out her nub of a tongue in reply.  He sighed. “I ain’ got any idea how Fareeha’s gonna take this visit. She’s the one who turned you into a rabbit in the first place, remember?” Hana rolled her eyes. McCree narrowed his. “Now don’ give me that look. If she sees you again, who knows what she’d--you’re comin, ain’cha,” he finished flatly, eyeing how the spark backed up out of McCree’s reach. Hana tried to cross her front paws as best she could as she gave a nod so vigorous the spark bounced up and down.

 

McCree sighed again, turning his head toward the tunnel entrance keeping watch on Hana from the corner of his eye. “Well. I dunno if Shi would have more luck with Amari than me, but I have half a mind t'let him try.” He could see Hana blanche, and now that he wasn’t running late to a high noon showdown, he had time to ponder exactly why. He knew next to nothing about Hana, had met her barely two hours ago and had a single half-shouted conversation with her before she was turned into a rabbit.

 

She’d mentioned something about never being let out, about being isolated. Was she being opulently imprisoned by Amari? Her reaction to Amari’s rage would certainly fit the profile of a prisoner to a violent warden, except that she had apparently been looking forward to being returned before the moment Amari had revealed the full extent of her rage. Perhaps it was a Stockholm Syndrome situation? Or perhaps Amari had never revealed that aspect of herself to Hana?

 

McCree shook his head. Whatever the relationship between Hana and Amari, it mattered little to the present situation. What really mattered was if McCree was in a position to keep Hana from following him if she so chose. Shi was a ninja; perhaps he would be able to catch and hold her, despite the spark? She had amply proven that she was more than willing to use every tool at her disposal to fight, even going so far as attacking an apparition at least a hundred times her size. He doubted she would ultimately be able to resist Shi, at least not for long--but the poor man already had enough scars.

 

“Alright. Look,” he began, flicking his eyes back to the tunnel, watchful for any sign of the train’s approach. “I ain’ gonna bullshit you. I don’ want you comin’ along.” He couldn’t see directly, but a sudden flurry of pink motion in his peripheral vision was enough to know Hana’s reaction. “ _However_ , I’m not really able t’keep you from followin’ me. I’m plannin’ on jumpin’ down on the train when it comes by, and I ain’ riskin’ carryin’ you in my hands or on my shoulder when I do. I’m gonna have t’roll when I land, and that could kill you if I’m carryin’ you. So. If you and that spark of yours can keep up, you can come with. If y’all can’ keep up, then you’re going t'stay with Shi and he’ll try and figure out how best t’get you turned back, even if it means takin’ you to Amari.” He turned a little, looking Hana in the eye. “So, if you _promise_ t'go with Shi if you can’ make it onto the train, then you can come with if you _do_. Deal?”

 

Hana returned his gaze evenly for a few moments, then nodded slowly. McCree smiled slightly and, passing Peacekeeper to his left hand, extended his right. “Shake on it.” Hana eyed it doubtfully, and he rolled his eyes. “I ain’ gonna try and catch you. First off, what am I gonna do with you? Second, you’d probably take my fingers off if I even tried.” Hana’s ears twitched at those words as she gave him a sly look, but the spark floated forward and he took a tiny paw in-between his thumb and forefinger and gingerly shook it.

 

A cough came from behind. He dropped Hana’s paw and turned. Shi had appeared, standing a good distance behind the apparition, who had approached to within a couple of meters. He had his helmet back on, the white-and-green fabric shining in the yellow light of the sun. McCree’s heart sank. The implications of that helmet were sobering.

 

Still, with a glance at the tunnel, he stepped past the apparition and went up to Shi, who had McCree’s things stuffed into the burlap sack that Han had given him. Shi offered it to him wordlessly, and McCree couldn’t find it in himself to meet the green ellipse over his eyes, instead opening up the sack to check that everything, boots, hat, and the rest, was there. He dropped Peacekeeper in, safety on despite being empty. That took a minute or so, during which McCree tried to figure out what to say and how to say it. Finally, chiding himself for letting the silence go on too long, he looked up to meet the green ellipse.

 

“Shi-”

 

“You’re crazy if you think you can get on the train from here,” Shi interrupted immediately, tone dry. “The station is just a few hundred meters down. Just swim out to the tracks and you can walk the rest of the way.”

 

McCree surprised himself a little by offering a crooked smile. “But then I’d have to use the tickets. I’m takin’ them as insurance, sure, but no one said I _had_ to use ‘em unless I’m caught.”

 

Shi cocked his head a little.  “Are you serious?” he said disbelievingly. “You’re going to drop ten meters onto a moving train just to-”

 

“Yes, I am.” McCree tried to imbue his voice with as much finality as he could, and it seemed to work. Shi was silent for a moment, allowing McCree to continue. “Look, Shi, what I meant t'say earlier was-”

 

“And you’re taking Hana with you?”

 

Nothing else probably would have been able to throw McCree off enough to fall silent, mouth open. Shi chuckled. “Lin told me, briefly, what happened. Han’s doing okay, by the way. Hasn’t woken up yet, though.” McCree’s eyes closed involuntarily at the news, a sliver of relief working its way through his chest, insulated by worry. Shi waited until he opened them again before saying, rather smugly, “Amari must have been pretty distracted when she saw you all. Lin and I could tell right away that rabbit and light-sprite aren’t what they seem, and given where you were before--” Shi gestured upwards with a gloved hand, “--there aren’t many people that they could be. So she’s going with you?”

 

“She’s, uh. She’s gonna try. I ain’ helpin’ her get on the train. Shi, do you know--?” A slight whooshing sound rushed through the air, from the direction of the tunnel. McCree’s head whipped around. “Shit.”

 

Shi chuckled again. “No time, cowboy.”

 

McCree hesitated. “Just--she’s gonna go with you if she doesn’ make it. I don’ know what you can do with her-”

 

Shi forcibly turned McCree around with a hand on his shoulder, pushing him forward. “Okay, no problem, but you’re about to miss your train, and you won’t want to wait around for the next one.”

 

The tracks below them were already starting to hum as the sounds of the train itself clacking heavily against the rails began to pour out of the tunnel’s mouth.

 

McCree awkwardly stuffed the sack under his left armpit before he grabbed the apparition by the elbow as he passed by and tugged him along, the apparition’s cloak billowing out with the sudden movement. “You’re gonna need a running start,” he muttered to him as he positioned them on the column, moving his right arm to the middle of the apparition’s back. “Just follow my lead.” He looked at Hana. “Remember, you promised, honey.” Hana gave a little salute. He looked back at Shi. “Shi-about earlier-”

 

“No time, cowboy, train’s here!”

 

Indeed, the sounds of the train suddenly increased tenfold as it burst out of the tunnel. McCree looked over his shoulder and took a couple of moments to judge its appearance and speed. “Aim for the second car,” he said to all around, “We’ll see if that’s enough t’keep the conductor from noticin’ the noise.” He had only seconds to spare.

 

He looked straight at Shi, wishing he could see the green eyes under the green fabric.

 

“My name is Jesse McCree.”

 

Shi started.

 

So did the apparition.

 

“Good luck, Jesse,” said Shi softly.

 

McCree pushed the apparition forward, bounding across the curved surface of the great cylinder. He felt the apparition gather speed under his own power, so he took his hand off his back and concentrated on his own footing, waiting until the cylinder dropped away to nearly a forty-five degree angle before he launched himself forward into the air.

 

Down below were only the train tracks, wavering gently below a few centimeters of water.

 

Then, a crest of water spilling over its prow, the front of the train passed by, followed by a pair of emergency exits separated by a raised ventilator, the accordion-like connection between carriages--

 

\--another emergency exit--

 

\--the ventilator of the second carriage--

 

McCree landed heavily, feeling his ankles and knees creak under the momentary strain as the blood was blasted from his feet. As he expected, the train was moving far faster than his running jump. He immediately rolled backward onto his buttocks and back, feeling his ankles nearly snap under the jolt. He was saved from rolling completely off the train by the second emergency exit, covered in a raised hatch that roughly caught his shoulder and stopped him dead.

 

He lay there, staring at the blue sky above.

 

The blue sky disappeared behind a veil of black smoke.

 

McCree jerked upright as he was enveloped. The smoke was gritty and harsh. It pelted him with grains of ash the size of fine sand, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and throw his metal forearm across them. He almost opened his mouth to yell, but he clamped it shut rather than risk the mouthful of ash. His nostrils filled with sulfur and charred flesh before he could cup his flesh hand over his nose and mouth. He retched, desperately trying not to allow any smoke-choked air into his lungs.

 

As quickly as it left, the light returned, burning red through his eyelids. At almost the same moment, the grains of ash pelting his skin disappeared.

 

His eyes shot open as he lowered his arm a little, allowing him to see. He was still sitting up on the roof of the train, the wind whipping his brown locks around his face. A flash of blue-white light passed close to his head. He caught a glimpse of a glowing, triangular shape, like a see-through hangglider, before it shrank into the point-like spark once again, nestled on Hana’s back. Hana herself was crouching low to the roof of the train, incisors bared, ears flat to her back, guttural noises erupting from her throat. She had her eyes locked on the apparition.

 

The apparition himself was curled on his side, massive legs pressing against his chest, back pressed to the long, raised ventilator that straddled the middle of the carriage. His clawed gauntlets were pressed to the white mask, hiding most of it from view. He seemed to be breathing fast and shallow, almost hyperventilating.

 

It took a moment for McCree to notice the green frog sprawled to the side, dressed in a blue tunic, close to the apparition's metallic knee-high boots.

 

Before McCree could do anything, the frog feebly stirred and sat up, pressing a webbed hand to his mouth.

 

“Wha-wha,” he moaned, sounding as if he was fighting the urge to vomit. “What happened?” His bulbous eyes opened, and he glanced blearily around.

 

McCree blinked. It was the frog that had knocked him off his feet on the bridge. “Lúci?” he asked hesitantly.

 

The frog blinked at him. “The human? How-where-?” The apparition shifted, his metal boots grating against the roof of the train. Lúci’s eyes snapped to him immediately, and he yelped. “No! I’m too young to die!” he screamed, and before McCree could do anything, Lúci leapt to his feet, wavering a little from the wind and the vibrating train under his feet, glanced wildly around, and immediately jumped off the side of the train.

 

McCree yelled and scrambled to the edge of the train on his hands and knees, the sack sagging dangerously under his armpit. McCree searched the water, swiftly locating the ripples where Lúci must have hit the water. To his relief, it seemed like he hadn’t landed in the shallow water covering the tracks and railbed, but the train was moving at a good speed, enough to knock someone out when they hit the water.

 

The seconds ticked past, the ripples swiftly falling astern. Finally, with a rush of relief, McCree spotted Lúci clambering up onto the railbed, his blue tunic already nearly blending in with the surface of the water reflecting the clear sky above.

 

He backed away from the edge, still crawling. He looked past Lúci, now leaning forward and convulsing as if he was retching the contents of his stomach into the water, past the wide V of waves trailing behind the train as it plowed through the water. The bathhouse was already a good distance away, but he could still see Shi on the bridge, a thin grey line atop the dark metal of the suspension bridge. McCree glanced toward the front of the train, making sure they weren’t about to pass anything hanging low, before he carefully got to his feet and waved with his right arm with great sweeping movements, keeping his left arm clamped tight around his sack. He thought he saw Shi wave back, but it was hard to tell.

 

Finally, he returned his attention to his fellow travelers.

 

The apparition hadn’t moved, and neither had Hana, although he could now tell that she was on the verge of being swept away by the wind buffeting them as the train sped along. He dropped to his knees once more and moved to pick her up. She moved into his hands quickly, still keeping an eye on the apparition. She glanced up at him as he moved closer, but neither she nor the spark made any other move.

 

He started when he felt the train begin to slow. He dropped to his stomach, holding Hana in front of his face. She stared at him wide-eyed, the spark glowing faintly under the light of the sun. The roar of cresting, splashing water from the front of the train slowly faded as it came to a complete stop. McCree hardly dared to breathe.

 

They were motionless for about a minute, then, to McCree’s immense relief, a low hum built in the undercarriage and the train slowly pushed forward through the water again.

 

He gathered Hana and the spark more securely in his hands, sat up, and looked behind. A bare concrete platform was sliding into view from one side of the train, flat and featureless, without even a sign naming it. He glanced back at the bathhouse. Shi had been right. It was only a few hundred meters away.

 

He turned to the apparition, still lying on his side. “Doing okay there?” McCree asked, voice raised over the bluster of the wind. The apparition made no reply other than lowering his claws from his face. The white mask betrayed little, but his chest was still heaving, though slower and with deeper breaths than before. McCree hesitated, but, acting on a sudden thought, he leaned forward and tilted one ear as close to the mask as possible. The wind was loud, but even as close as he was, he couldn’t hear even a hint of panting or any other sound coming from the apparition.

 

McCree leaned back again. “I thought there was probably one left,” he muttered. “Took a nasty shock t'force him back up again.” The apparition didn’t reply, but McCree was fairly certain that he couldn’t anymore.

 

McCree scooted back to rest his lower back on the emergency exit hatch, facing forward. He lowered his face to his chest, raising Hana slightly. “I gotta keep watch for the stops and any more tunnels or power lines or whatever,” he called to her over the wind. “Hang tight for a second. I can shield you from the wind with the sack.” Hana buried her claws into his tunic for a couple of moments while he shifted the sack to his lap, keeping it secure with his left arm. He felt Hana relax a little when it sheltered her. “Be careful now, honey,” he said. “If something does come up, I’m gonna have t’lay flat. I’ll warn you, but keep an eye skinned, alright?” Hana acknowledged with a small nod and flexing of her claws.

 

He settled in, his legs sprawled in front, back pressed into the hatch, sack and rabbit and spark in his lap, and the apparition on his side a little ways ahead.

 

The world streamed past, blue water and sky mixed with white waves and low-hanging cloud.

 

Hana soon gained enough confidence to crawl from McCree’s tunic to the bag. The thick burlap allowed her to gain fairly stable footing with her claws, and she was soon switching from side to side, looking out over the water to the left for a few minutes before making her to way to see the view to the right and back again.

 

At first there was very little to see. The train obscured most of the view towards the front, but from McCree’s vantage it was easy to envision that they were skimming over the water, no rails or tracks to guide them. The water seemed to stretch on forever, an invariable, infinite plane.

 

To combat this bleak imagining, he kept a lookout for the town whose lights he’d seen the night before, looking out over the newborn sea. From the bathhouse, it had seemed like the tracks made straight for it, but soon the tracks shifted ever-so-slightly to the left as if to avoid it. As they did, a green dot appeared out of the haze obscuring the line of the horizon, rapidly approaching and resolving into a spindly tree, leaves full and verdant against the blue backdrop of sky. A house stood beside it, its drab whitewashed walls blending into the clouds that floated low in the distant sky. A laundry line fluttered and twisted at the house’s side. All was contained on a single tiny, low island, covered in thick grass that looked plastered to the ground by the heavy rainfall of the storm, but its sweet smell still managed to waft over the tracks, allowing the train to knife through for a brief moment before it was swept away in the wind. McCree watched the small isle pass with furrowed eyebrows.

 

More specks and lines appeared, mostly green in color, but the train did not pass close by any them. Most of them were flat, probably mere mounds painted green with grass or shrubs. A few were obviously inhabited, their long lines built up in patches of white, yellow, and red walls and roofs mixed with tall green trees sheltering the buildings. One might even have been the town McCree had expected, though in the daylight it seemed more a small village. It was hard to tell at this distance, but perhaps the bright lights in the all-encompassing dark of night had puffed it up in McCree’s sight.

 

Straight ahead, a particularly flat piece of water turned out to be another platform. The train once again slowed. McCree, with a whispered warning to Hana, carefully clambered onto his stomach once more, but this time he crawled towards the right side of the train, curious to see who or what was taking this strange journey with them across the water.

 

This platform looked like an actual station, though it, too, stood alone and isolated in the middle of the water, apart from any other obvious infrastructure or civilization. It was backed with a picket fence that had once been painted white but was already yellowing and speckling with age, and a roofed stairway painted a dingy dark red descended straight into the water, disappearing below the slight swells from the train that wrapped around the corners of the platform.

 

A sign gradually appeared from behind the stairway as the train slowed and stopped.

 

**沼原**

**NUMA HARA**

 

McCree was soon distracted by the sound of the train’s door sliding open, and passengers began to disembark. His eyes narrowed as they came into view, each heading for the staircase. Each one recalled the black, see-through denizens of the bathhouse’s town they had left far behind, except instead of being formless, these were much more distinctly humanoid, legs and arms and heads apparent. They were even clothed, old-style flat caps and bulky jackets, headscarves and floor-length dresses. All transparent, down to the suitcases and baggage they all hefted in their hands. All faceless, lacking even the yellow eyes the spirits of the town possessed. Soon, the train’s door slid closed, the undercarriage groaned, and the train continued on. McCree watched the platform fall behind.

 

A single figure captured his gaze, the only still personage on the platform, left behind by the rest. They were dressed simply in a grey-yellow blouse and grey-red skirt, faded hands folded together, chin-length hair slack, standing halfway down the platform, making no move and staring at the train as it gathered speed.

 

They remained still as they faded into the gloom slowly creeping across the water.

 

McCree returned to the hatch, cradling Hana and the sack in his lap. He tried to maintain his vigilance of the way ahead, but found himself watching the apparition more often than not, pondering the mask and what may lay beneath.

 

_-_-_

 

Cool red light greeted Han as he rose out of the depths of unconsciousness. It was soothing, even as the aches of his limbs made themselves known, followed by a seeming rod of pain embedded in his torso, running from his stomach straight up his throat. He breathed slow and deep through his nose, wincing as his exhales warmed and pricked at his raw throat and feeling a shiver of relief as his inhales cooled and relieved the pain for brief moments.

 

He languidly identified the smell of natural gas, grease, herbs, and metal. The boiler room.

 

He was lying on something soft draped over the hard flooring, his legs covered in scratchy fabric. He shifted slightly, feeling out his body, twitching his fingers and toes.

 

_“Han! Haaaan!”_

 

His eyes popped open, and he groaned as he struggled to sit up. The rod of pain flared, his stomach roiling, and he dropped back onto his back with a small gasp, squeezing his eyes shut when the ceiling above spun behind a screen of static appearing in his vision.

 

“Easy. It’s all right.”

 

Han squeezed his eyes tighter for a moment. He rode out the pain, a part of him thankful that it was giving him the opportunity to prepare himself, to piece himself back together before he had to confront the green ellipse and the broken man it hid.

 

Several minutes passed before the pain settled back into his core, although he thought, a little wishfully, that it was already fading a little.

 

He could not force himself to open his eyes for a little while longer, however.

 

When he finally did, he drew out the inevitable still longer by staring straight up at the ceiling, crisscrossed by the rails of Lin’s trolley constructs. He could feel the presence at his side, now, expectant and patient and clearly going nowhere, no matter how long he may wish to delay. He gave a little internal sigh, marvelling at his own cowardice, before he turned his head slightly.

 

He was immediately arrested by green eyes surrounded by white slashes.

 

It was the first time he’d seen those eyes in years. Last time, they had been surrounded with open cuts, blood dripping from the wounds surrounded by angry red burns, bloodshot and full of hatred and pain--

 

No.

 

That wasn’t right.

 

Last time, they had been surrounded by those same scars, and they had been wide with fear and filled with memory. When--?

 

“What do you remember?” Shi asked quietly, his chapped and split lips moving almost imperceptibly.

 

Han looked away, the excuse of a moment of consideration too tempting to pass up.

 

Instinct had taken over not long before he reached the bathhouse, rational thought sinking below the combined tide of the swarm of paper slashing at his sides and the building agony knifing at his innards. He could remember the pain readily enough, had a dim recollection of twisting and writhing both in the air and on the ground, _his voice_ calling out of the darkness, and a last effort to save not only himself from certain death, but also-

 

“J-” he coughed, roughly, half out of pain and half to cover his mistake. His voice was utterly foreign, wavery and weak, a far cry from his usual rock steady, gravelly tone. “I remember--Mac calling, out of the darkness.” He let his eyes slip closed. “I followed his voice. I found--you--” Despite the fear, despite the memory, despite the slowly resolving figure of Shi forming in his mind’s eye, clutching at a table, staring at the blood dripping from the same jaws that had--despite everything, he focused on the image of his brother, unmasked, scarred yet healed and healthy and _alive_ and looking at him with something other than hatred.

 

Even fear was preferable, though it, too, burned with the same intensity albeit a different flame. Han welcomed the change.

 

He realized with a heavy thud of his heart that he had fallen silent for a good while. He pursed his lips, feeling the skin crackle a bit, dry and swollen.

 

“Here. Drink this.” And a cool hand, rough with callouses overlaid on more permanent marks, was sliding under his back and lifting him up with staggering gentleness. The smooth edge of a saucer pressed against his lips. He kept his eyes closed, couldn’t bear to look, but he sipped at the liquid, repressing a cough at its putrid odor and bitter taste, recognizing it for the medicinal draught that it was. A wave of guilt washed over him. Guilt he was familiar with, but rarely had it been this intense as his brother cradled his disfigurer in one arm.

 

Shi laid him back down when the saucer ran dry. Already the pain was fading, his throat reacting less and less to his breathing.

 

The guilt remained constant.

 

“We saw you coming in. We got you inside, which made those birds back off. Then you went to find Amari.” Shi’s voice was flat, void of emotion. Completely unlike the boisterous and flippant tone he had struck at home, and unlike the confident and teasing tone Han had found coloring his brother’s voice in this wretched place. “Amari found and abandoned you. That’s when Jesse found you.” Han opened his eyes with a start and looked at Shi, opening his mouth to speak, but Shi paid him no mind. He wouldn’t even make eye contact with Han, staring straight across the room as he kneeled at Han’s side, head, hands, and feet bare. “He brought you here-or maybe the other way around, Lin wasn’t sure who was leading who-and he got that seal out of you, along with the protection spell that was killing you.”

 

Han grimaced. His pride was a monstrous thing, and even here and now, overwhelmed by his frailty and his brother’s presence, he felt annoyance sweep through him at the prospect of having missed something as fundamental as a protection spell. Sloppy. Amateur.

 

Shi glanced down at him and, incredibly, he smiled. Han stared. It was small, and it didn’t reach his reserved and wary eyes, but Shi was _smiling_ . At _him_. “We all make mistakes. Even you,” he said, and that was when the smile did reach his eyes, the wariness receding just a little from a bare glimmering twinkle.

 

It was too much. Han looked away, turning his head. “Only one that mattered,” he whispered.

 

He heard a sharp intake of breath.

 

“You’ve made at least one more, since then.” Shi’s voice had a hard edge. Han gritted his teeth. “Exactly _what_ that mistake was, though? Amari knows. Lin knows.” He paused for a moment. “Jesse knows. He’s been here three days, and he already knows more than I do. You trusted him more after _three days_ than you do me.” Anger was bubbling into Shi’s voice, intensifying with each word.

 

Han felt his chest constrict. Years of cowardice were coming to a head, closing around his throat even as he fought to say, “Trust had nothing to do with it.”

 

“Then why?”

 

“I simply had nothing to say-no, I had no words- _no,_ I-”

 

Shi snorted derisively. “You have never been at a loss for words in all your long life. You’ve had _years_ to say something. To say _anything._ ”

 

“I had nothing _but_ words,” barked Han, screwing his eyes shut. “I wanted to offer something of value, an apology that _meant_ something, something beyond mere words, but I failed _._ Until I could offer you something material, I was not worthy to address you.”

 

Shi huffed. “Not worthy? You come here and offer to take my place, and you’re not worthy?”

 

Han wished he could turn onto his side, away from Shi, but he didn’t trust his limbs to have that much coordination yet. He placated himself by drawing his hands to his face, his fingers splaying limply across his eyes. “And after all that, you knew,” he mumbled.

 

“I had to _guess,_ ” Shi hissed. “Lin dropped as many hints as he could. Jesse tried to tell me outright. I wanted to hear it from _you,_ brother.”

 

Both men fell silent. Han pursed his lips and willed the tears not to push out from beneath his eyelids. He called Shi his brother in his mind. He would _never_ claim that honor aloud. He had forfeited it with the first strike all those years ago.

 

After a while, Shi let out a soft sigh. “Did you find my swords?”

 

Han dragged his hands down his face, thrown by the non sequitur. He turned his head back toward Shi, eyes narrowed. “How-”

 

“You found Jesse’s things, after they’d been thrown away.” Shi shifted his legs a little. “If you were willing to take on the dreg spirits for him--” He shrugged.

 

“Yes,” Han said slowly. “I found them soon after I came here. I was--if I had not failed, I would have given you my own. It is waiting for you, still. But since I was imprudent,” he said with a scowl, “I went to find them, hoping they would help me remember your name. They did not.”

 

“You trusted more in my swords than you did in me,” groused Shi, rolling his eyes.

 

Han fixed him with a stare. “As I said, trust had nothing to do it. Merely my lack of honor.” Shi merely stared back. Han sighed as he blinked and glanced away. “They are safe. I will deliver them to you once you are free. It will be better for you to possess all the family heirlooms, anyway. It will bolster your right to rule when you return home.”

 

“I’m going to sell them and buy your freedom.”

 

Han’s eyes snapped back to Shi, widened in shock. Shi returned the look evenly, one corner of his mouth threatening to lift into a smirk.

 

“No.”

 

“My swords, my decision.”

 

“ _No._ ”

 

“Don’t worry, if it’s not enough, I can go back home and grab another _wakizashi_ and a few shuriken.”

 

“No, I forbid it.”

 

“Oh? And just how are you going to stop me, _anija_?”

 

Han closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, they were glassy. “Why?”

 

Shi sighed and slumped. “Why do you think? I can’t leave you here. You need to come home, with me.”

 

Han swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump in his throat. His voice was still thick and hoarse when he spoke. “After-after what I did-”

 

“After what _we_ did,” corrected Shi, heavily. “You haven’t convinced yourself that I’m blameless, have you?”

 

Han pursed his trembling lips as he stared wide-eyed at Shi. Finally, in a small voice, he whispered, “You--did not deserve--”

 

“Of course I didn’t,” interrupted Shi, gently. “I’m not saying that I didn’t get the raw end of the deal. Just look at me. No, _look at me,_ ” he urged when Han made a small noise and made to turn away. He waited until he turned back before he continued, green eyes soft and earnest. “You hurt me. You almost killed me.” Han’s eyes darkened into deep pools, but his gaze was steady. “But--I did nothing but fan the flames. And I went into that fight ready to kill you.” Shi broke eye contact, looking down at his scarred hands as they clutched at his knees.

 

“I was ready to kill you,” he repeated. “You were an arrogant despot that cared for nothing but power. I was doing our land a favor by getting rid of you. But all that study, all that training, all that self-domination and discipline--I was no match for it. I imagined that you were singularly cruel,” he said, folding his hands together and rubbing one thumb over the scars on the back of the other hand, “But would I not have done the same, given the chance?”

 

“No.” Han’s hands had clenched into fists. “You would have given me a clean death. You would not have mutilated me like I have you.”

 

Shi was silent for a moment. “I am not so sure,” he whispered. “We are brothers, you and I. I often envied you as you stood tall and proud above me. I would imagine cutting your feet off, forcing you to kneel for the rest of your days. I imagined far worse things after I fled and wandered, waiting to recuperate enough to return and seek revenge.”

 

Han blinked at this, then said, “Then perhaps we are too dangerous to be near each other. All the more reason for you to return home and leave me here.”

 

Shi smiled. “If we were the same now as we were then, I would agree. But we have lived under the same roof all these years, and nothing has happened.”

 

Han snorted. “It is hardly the same.”

 

“No, but a lot has happened in the meantime,” replied Shi with a strange somber smile. “For one thing, I’ve experienced the rule of an actual uncaring despot, and I can honestly say I was mistaken. You were distant and obstinate, and your idea of justice lacked empathy, but you did deliver justice.” His gaze turned inward, and his smile faltered. “I was more interested in partying and being well-liked. I lacked the resolve to correct our people when they went astray.”

 

“But they were your people,” murmured Han. “You knew their hearts as well as your own, you understood their desires and their plights. They trusted you. They never did me. In return I never understood any of them, nor desired to. I never _cared_ for them the way you did.”

 

“Yes you did, in your own way. You never treated them as expendable, as Amari does.”

 

Han gave a little huff. “No. I did not.”

 

“And despite their trust, I never protected them as you did.”

 

“You protected them from me,” sighed Han, “From my pride and my iron hand.”

 

“I urged leniency at times,” allowed Shi. “Sometimes it was deserved. Sometimes it was because I’d gone drinking with them the week before,” he laughed, sounding tired but carefree. At ease.

 

Han made a small noise. The conversation was too frank, too familiar. He had no right to this.

 

He tried to pull back, to withdraw behind his habitual mask. But Shi gave him a sharp glance and immediately moved to paralyze him before he could retreat too far.

 

“Besides, you can’t deny you’ve changed. Just look at Jesse.” Shi didn’t bother to hide the smirk now. “You never would have done so much for a human back then.”

 

Han felt his traitorous face begin to heat. If he were well, and if he were with anyone but his brother, he could have hoped to hide it, but as it was, Shi’s smirk only grew. “Je-- _McCree_ is--”

 

“Is what, _anija_?”

 

Han searched for something to say.

 

“He is-lucky.”

 

Shi gave him a disbelieving look. “Lucky.”

 

“Yes. He has-he has led a very eventful life, and he has managed to become--” Han paused and looked back at the ceiling. “He has done many things,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “His luck has helped him to survive it all, but for a time he abused it, bringing ruin to all around him. But he has risen above that. He has become kind. Dutiful. He protects those around him without a second thought. He--” He trailed off, unable to vocalize any more of his train of thought.

 

Shi looked at him thoughtfully. “How do you know this?”

 

Han offered him a tiny ironic smile. “As I said, he is lucky.”

 

Shi frowned. “Is it really such a secret?”

 

Han’s smile disappeared. “It is painful to think of, at present,” he admitted, voice tired. “When we met again--I was too late, and all I could do was lead him into Amari’s trap and trust that his luck would pluck him out again. It was _all_ I could do. He deserved better.” He paused for a moment, then said bitterly, “It does not matter how little I did, his luck has served him well. He is already closer to escaping than you and I have ever been.”

 

Shi hummed a little in response, his expression suddenly calculating and distant. Then, slowly, with clear hesitation, he said, “He seems to be--pretty determined to drag us out with him.”

 

Han’s face hardened. “What do you mean?”

 

“Well, ah--you know that seal you stole from Fareeha?” Han gave a tiny nod, disquiet forming in the pit of his stomach at Shi’s suddenly nervous expression and tone. “Amari didn’t know you had it. Jesse got it out of you, and, uh, both Lin and I told him to use it to buy his freedom, along with his commander’s, since he has his name.”

 

Han felt the disquiet creep up into his chest. “But he did not, the fool,” he breathed. “Where is he now? Did he take it to Amari? To try to get a better price?”

 

“No, no. He--he thought he might be able to get a better price from, uh. From Fareeha.”

 

Han tried to surge up. It was a testament to his quick healing how far he got, managing a kneeling position before the rod of pain in his torso flared to life and the blood seemed to drain from his head. Shi moved to his side immediately, taking a hold of his shoulders and trying to press him back down. “ _Anija_ , it’s too late,” he said, voice firm. “He left hours ago.”

 

“And you did not stop him?!” snarled Han. “When Amari discovers he is gone, his life is forfeit! She will likely assign _me_ to dispatch him! What were you thinking?”

 

Shi gave up trying to force him back down. Han had stopped trying to struggle to his feet anyway, swaying in place on his knees as he willed his head to clear and his innards to settle. Instead, Shi began to rub circles into Han’s back soothingly. “Relax, my brother, I wouldn’t have let him go if he had nothing to protect him from Amari’s wrath,” he chided.

 

“And what protection did you send--” Han suddenly stopped short. Shi’s shifting to assist him had revealed the back of his legs, where, plastered against the fabric covering his right upper calf, a single paper falcon rested. Han was not nearly as quick as he usually was, but Shi still started when Han’s hand darted down and plucked it off with a sharp snap of paper.

 

The brothers stared at the paper falcon for several long seconds. Han settled back, folding his calves and feet underneath himself as he knelt in seiza.

 

“Does she know?”

 

Shi sighed. “She must know everything.”

 

Han nodded, then addressed the falcon, rather brusquely. “Please excuse us, this is a private conversation.” Then he primly tore the falcon in half before ripping the pieces to shreds a bit more viciously. He crumpled the shreds in his hands before he dropped them to the side of the purple mattress with a disdainful look. “You’ve become lax.”

 

“I was a bit distracted,” Shi retorted.

 

Han’s lips started to curl back into a snarl, but he pursed them and pinched the bridge of his nose instead.

 

And a small part of him marvelled at how much he had missed this, how much the words and lenience and acceptance and inattentiveness of his brother had quenched a parched and desolate part of his soul in the little time they had spoken.

 

He needed more.

 

He would make sure there would be more.

 

But for now--

 

“Tell me what happened.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dragons' Tale implies slightly different motivations than Hanzo and Genji's canon story. Consider this a psuedo-fanfic of the dragon brothers!
> 
> It feels like we've hit the crest of the hill and we're coasting down to the conclusion. Two, maybe three chapters to go, I think, unless I go absolutely crazy. 
> 
> Thank you for reading this far! I really appreciate it! Your kudos and comments, especially after that long hiatus before the last chapter, have been such a source of joy. Thank you. Thank you.


	11. A Deal and Swamp Bottom

Han stepped out of the elevator into the service hallway for Amari’s rooms, the white linoleum abnormally bright in the harsh light. He paused and sniffed the air, slowly and pensively, and pursed his lips. He turned left and made his way a little slowly, a little unsteadily, breathing deep to offset the lingering torpor of his illness. Shi had wanted him to wait a little longer to shake it off, to wait until he recovered a bit more of his strength. Han was beginning to think he had been right. He would need his strength; he always needed all his strength when confronting Amari.

 

He slowed a bit as he approached the staff entrance to Amari’s kitchen. His chest was constricting, his stomach clenching. His breath strained to quicken beyond his control. It was more than he was used to bearing when facing her

 

He frowned at his own discomposure. It was fairly foreign, now that he was not half-dead and in his brother’s presence, where he could easily expect himself to waver. He slowed his breathing a bit, still breathing deep, focusing on the air rushing in and out rhythmically. He parsed his actions and his thoughts, trying to identify the root cause of his anxiety.

 

He stopped just short of the entrance, still considering. He thought of Amari, waiting inside, of Shi, down below, and of Jesse, far away.

 

It struck him how much he had to lose. 

 

Shi had--forgiven him? Han had yet to offer his apology, so it was not “official” by any means, but Shi had never been one to follow tradition and ritual like Han had. Even if he had not forgiven him, it was undeniable that his brother wanted to mend their bond, and that was far more than Han had expected or even thought to wish for. And that,  _ that _ was a chink in Han’s armor, a point of vulnerability, something to hide from Amari lest she take advantage of that the way she had taken advantage of Han’s misguided quest to regain honor. 

 

And Jesse--Jesse had apparently abandoned the bathhouse, an offense that Amari rewarded with a fate worse than death. He was also intent on helping him and Shi, and with his determination and luck, it was anyone’s guess how close he was. It would all be snatched away if Amari struck him down. He and Shi would be back to square one. 

 

And Han would be devastated enough if that was all he had to lose when to came to Jesse McCree. However--

 

However--

 

Han had been startled, down in the boiler room, when he realized just how much the man had grown in his estimation, how preoccupied he was with the man’s safety, how scared he was for him. 

 

Now Jesse unknowingly depended on Han for so much as he prepared to meet Amari’s wrath.

 

Han sighed. 

 

And he smiled. 

 

Shi and Jesse were weaknesses, it was true. But he was glad, because they were weaknesses that he could easily turn to strengths.

 

He would not fail them. He could not fail them.

 

He twisted the doorknob and pulled the door open. A wide pantry greeted him, the jumbled scents of dozens of spices, flour, and rice mingling in the air. Motes of flour dust danced in the air, caught by a mixture of steady beams and flickering light peeking around the corner of the open doorframe that led out onto the blue-and-white tiles of the kitchen itself.  

 

Amari’s voice was echoing off the hard floor.

 

“-think you can sway me by simply groveling? You can gather up every single moron that thing threw back up and it won’t pay for a sliver of damage! And now he’s run away rather than pay for his  _ idiocy _ .” Amari paused and lowered her voice. It was barely discernible above the crackling sounds of a built-up fire. “Well, I know of one way I can pay for the damage. His  _ commander _ is apparently fairly renowned in the human world. I can think of a few spirits who would consider him quite the delicacy. Since Mac’s loyalty didn’t seem to be enough, there’s no reason to keep the pig around. Go and put him on the menu.”

 

Han drew himself up and walked with quiet, sure steps.

 

“Wait a moment,” he said as he rounded the corner into the kitchen, grateful that his voice was once more deep and gravelly. It was also rather commanding, something he had never quite dared to do in Amari’s presence.

 

She did not appreciate it. “Aha. Still alive, are you?” she sneered, peering owlishly at him. “Not for long, with that tone.” 

 

Han stopped halfway through the enormous kitchen, bowing his head in deference to his “mistake”. “My apologies, madam,” he said as he raised his head. “I was merely anxious to report to you, since you have apparently missed so much.”

 

Amari narrowed her eye. She was seated immediately in front of one of the fireplaces the kitchen afforded, a fire piled high behind her with a thick black cauldron swung out of the way to allow the heat to radiate unimpeded into the large room. The firelight played and glinted in dozens of bright spots of a tumbler filled halfway with tea on a small table in front of Amari, the brightly polished copper pots and pans neatly arranged on the walls, the glassware filled to varying levels with powders, the glossy wood on the other doors leading into the kitchen from Amari’s rooms, and the tiles set into the floors and above the fireplaces and wood ovens splayed around the room. 

 

Amari’s face was saved from being cast into shadow by the bland light cast by a simple fixture almost directly over her head. She did not look well, at all. Her hair was hidden in a bleached white towel that was piled high above her head and draped over her shoulders in a simile of her usual head covering. She was wrapped in a thick bathrobe made of fluffy white material that seemed to puff her up like a Persian cat. Every piece of exposed skin, her face, her hands, even her sandaled feet that poked out from below the hem of her bathrobe, was red and swollen with sores, shiny under a thick layer of sweet-smelling balm that she was practically bathed in.

 

She looked like she had been sandblasted, which, from Shi’s description of the apparition, was probably not too far from the truth.

 

The supervisor was kneeling in front of her, two meters from her feet, his large bulk flanked by a slug in a fine kimono, one of the longest-serving and popular bath attendants, and Lúci, blue tunic unusually neat and pressed, kneeling at his sides. They were looking over their shoulders at Han, the slug with a little  _ oh _ of surprise, the supervisor with a shocked yet hopeful expression, and Lúci with a wide smile.

 

“Han-sama!” Lúci called out. “Have you heard what happened? Did you hear what Mac did? He saved us,  _ twice _ , but Amari-sama-”

 

“I have heard,” cut in Han smoothly. “Much has happened while I’ve been away. More than my mistress realizes.” 

 

“Fresh,” hissed Amari. “What could you possibly think you-”  She was interrupted by one of the doors opening with a clunk and a bang, and a rather vacant-eyed girl with long, straight brown hair and dressed in a blue, pink, and white jumpsuit ambled in. She stopped short at the sight of Han’s unblinking gaze. “Oh, my dear,” said Amari, tone whipping into something saccharine and syrupy. “Back for more already? Take care not to spoil your appetite!” The girl nodded slowly, an uncertain smile spreading across her face as she focused on Amari. Keeping her distance from Han, she shuffled towards a set of cabinets set above and below a countertop in the corner of the room. Han followed her with his eyes, even as Amari addressed him again. “What,” she began, voice regaining its hissing tone, “can you possibly think you know that I do not? You couldn’t even manage to complete the mission I set for you, and now you come here and- _ what are you staring at? _ ”

 

Han’s eyes casually flitted from the girl, as she opened cabinet after cabinet and pulled boxes and bags of sweets from the shelves, to Amari’s bloodshot eye and snarling mouth. He raised an eyebrow. “You truly do not see it?” Amari’s eye widened slightly. “You do not know Hana-sama as well as you think, then.”

 

Amari’s head snapped around, causing the towel to unfold slightly and sag down one side of her head. She glared at the girl, who had frozen, arms full of parcels and mouth stuffed with triangular orange chips. They stared at each other for a few moments before Amari, trembling slightly, raised one hand.

 

The girl tried to bolt, dropping everything to the ground with rattling and crunching sounds as she trampled and tripped through the mess. Amari moved her hand in a precise straight line, and the girl seemed to pop into three pieces, her head and hips separating from her torso. The pieces tumbled to the ground where they writhed and melted and reformed, spiky and burnt blonde hair jutting out, long noses growing, and panicked cackles erupting.

 

Soon, three spike-haired heads were bouncing and rolling out the nearest exit, disappearing from sight down an extravagantly decorated hallway.

 

There was silence for a split-second, Amari’s gaping expression mirrored by the three employees kneeling in front of her.

 

“ _ Hana! _ ” Amari screamed, leaping out of her seat and moving with lightning speed to the same door, pushing aside the small table as she went. The tumbler smashed on the floor, glass and tea spraying everywhere. The supervisor and his two attendants scrambled out of the way of the pieces. “ _ Ya qamar! _ ” came echoing down the hallway, fading quickly.

 

Han nodded at them as he turned to follow her. “You may go,” he said smoothly as he made for the open door.

 

“Han-sama, wait!” yelped the supervisor as he jumped to his feet. “Little Mac--I mean, Mac, he does not deserve to be--”

 

“I will not allow anything to happen to him.” 

 

Rhine closed his wide mouth with an audible snap. He stared at Han with unmasked surprise. Han offered him a tiny smile in reply. Rhine’s wide mouth opened and closed twice before he glanced at the door and whispered, “Should I hide his commander--?”

 

Han’s smile widened. “I do not believe that will be necessary,” he said as he made for the open door. “I would, however, make myself scarce. Amari will not be safe to approach for some time,” he added, a tad flippantly, as he walked into the hallway and left the kitchen behind. He walked briskly, but he did not try to catch up. There were only two places to look for Hana, after all: her bedroom and her mecha depot.

 

Amari had made short work of the bedroom and rushed to the depot by the time Han arrived. Booms and thuds vibrated the floor even before he got to the double doors in Amari’s office that led to the depot’s central arena. He walked down the short passageway as metal clanged and protested and scraped noisily against concrete. He stepped daintily around the piles of debris scattered across the arena floor and one of the mecha that had been thrown down into it from above as he made his way to the freight lift and activated it, letting it carry him to the parking spiral above.

 

Amari was wrenching open the last cockpit as the lift shuddered to a stop. It was unnecessary; one could see it was empty through the clear protective glass, but Amari was crazed. She was a few tiers above him, staring into the empty mecha with her back to him. The lift’s noise drew her attention, and she slowly turned. Her mouth was wide and gaping, her chest heaved and puffed, her eye was unblinking with the white sclera forming a perfect circle around her dark and dilated pupil, the dark brown iris hardly visible.

 

“You,” she breathed. “ _ Where have you taken her?! _ ” she screeched, voice high-pitched yet guttural. With her thin, bony hands she grabbed ahold of the long-barrelled cannon the mecha behind her boasted and easily ripped it from its chassis. She hoisted it onto her shoulder and glared down its length, centering on Han’s head with surprising strength and deadly accuracy. 

 

Han stared mildly back. “I did not take her anywhere,” he murmured. “She went of her own accord.”

 

“You  _ lie! _ ” she roared. “She would never leave me unless she was tricked or coerced! Who-” she suddenly stopped, her eye widening further with realization. “Mac. He took her, didn’t he? He kidnapped her when he fled, to use her as a hostage and a shield!”

 

Han raised an eyebrow again. “She is with Mac, that is true,” he said patiently. “But he is more dutiful than you give him credit for. Can you honestly say he did not try to return her? Think, madam.”

 

Amari did not move for a few moments. “The rabbit.” Tone flat, disbelieving. “He is not capable of it.”

 

“No. That was Fareeha’s work.”

 

“Fareeha?” The cannon slipped off Amari’s shoulder and fell to the floor with a sick and echoing crack. “Fareeha came here?”

 

“In a manner of speaking,” replied Han, reaching into his tunic and withdrawing a few shreds of paper. He held them out to Amari in an open palm before he let them flutter to the ground. Amari watched them fall, the blood draining from her face. “She turned Hana into the rabbit. Mac found her and tried to bring her to you. You,” he said, emphasizing the word with ice in his voice, “rejected her.” 

 

Amari shuddered and, seeming to shrink in size, staggered back and sat on the next tier, holding a hand to her chest.

 

Han, for his part, began to climb the tiers towards her. “Mac has been protecting her since,” he continued, tone still icy. “He protected her from the goryō you threw her to.” Amari shuddered again. “He tried to convince her to stay. He tried to hand her off to another staff member so she could be returned to you when you came to your senses. In short,” he paused as he climbed the last tier and stood in front of Amari, her gaze unfocused and turned inward. “You owe him a great deal.”

 

Amari’s eye snapped back into focus and she glared up at him. “I owe him nothing,” she said, glowering. 

 

“Is she worth so little to you?” Han asked.

 

Amari surged up, leaning into Han’s space, staring eye-to-eye. “You, dragon, are not in a position to judge the worth of  _ family _ ,” she jeered. 

 

She was striking at a wound in Han’s heart that had bled for years, long before she had known him. With a jolt and a surge of emotion, Han realized the wound had closed. Tender, yes, but scabbed over. Healing.

 

A weakness turned to strength, indeed.

 

He met her gaze evenly. 

 

“Then what would you give, madam?” he inquired, voice soft. “What would you give to have her back again?” 

 

Amari recoiled, just a bit, a millimeter if that, but enough. Han did not smile, but he rejoiced.

 

“Hana trusts Mac,” he continued in the same soft voice. “He can bring her back. What can you give him, to entice him?” He waited a few moments, then pushed just a little farther. “There is only one thing.”

 

Amari swallowed and trembled. She, too, was recovering. Her wounds from the goryō were still too fresh for her to shapeshift. She would lose precious time if she waited until she was able to go herself.

 

She knew that, and she knew Han did, too. 

 

“Track him down,” she rasped, defeated. “Track him down, and if he brings her back, he will have his freedom. Both of them,” she clarified, seeing a glint in Han’s eyes. “Both him and his commander. They will have their freedom and be returned to the human world.”

 

Han waited.

 

“Alive, and well, and with no lingering debt to me!” she finally snarled.

 

Han bowed slightly. He moved past her, making for the back entrance of the depot, the one that led to the service hallways. There was no time to waste. If Amari recovered enough, she would gladly do her own dirty work if it meant she would not be forced to make a payment. Han was well enough, thanks to Lin and Shi (and Jesse), that he could depart immediately. He would not get there before Jesse reached Fareeha, but hopefully--

 

“And then.”

 

He froze. Amari’s voice was now just as soft as his own, but with an edge of maleficence that he had rarely heard. He turned to meet her gaze. She was smiling, slightly.

 

“And then,” she repeated, smile widening. “You will tell me why you are so interested in this human’s welfare.  _ After _ you have answered for allowing Fareeha into my home.”

 

-_-_-

 

The train began to slow. McCree checked once more for any low-hanging branches or wires against the dark blue-black sky, but there were none, so he gathered up his sack, lifted Hana and the spark to his shoulder, and called “Sixth stop. We’re here,” to the apparition. 

 

The trip had gone faster than he expected, but the sun had set, and the twilight was fading, a thin band of blue along the horizon rapidly collapsing under a black dome pricked with steadily brightening stars. The train had switched on both its interior lights and a brilliant headlight that provided a surprising amount of ambient light, as if the train were surrounded with a bank of mist that was a touch too tenuous to be seen.

 

The four intermeaning stops between Numa Hara and Swamp Bottom had passed with little to no fanfare, the train gliding to a smooth stop at each one, sometimes letting off a passenger or two, sometimes simply sitting for a minute before moving on, but never picking up anyone new. They had been similar to the platform outside the bathhouse, simple and flat concrete pads poking up out of the water. The first two had been simply that, but the third had been announced long before they arrived by a multicolored glow that had appeared out of the dusk and rapidly grew as the train rushed to meet it. It had turned out to be a couple dozen neon lights floating on either side of the tracks, no visible supports, the tubes formed into signs and placards for cafés, seafood restaurants, and hotels. 

 

It had all the hallmarks of the approach to a rest stop or even a sizeable town advertising its wares to weary travelers passing through, and both McCree and Hana had sat up, expectant and curious, to see what kind of settlement would be out here in the seeming middle of nowhere. The feeling of isolation had only increased as the sun set and the green islands and islets had faded to black, impossible to see unless the train passed close by, so any sign break in the monotony was welcome.

 

The town had been mysterious and disappointing. The station was a copy of the others, except for the fancy tiled roof of a building that stuck out of the water just behind it, crowned with a brilliant green, blue, and red neon sign in the shape of a vast sake saucer that lit up the sparkling water for dozens of meters around it, almost masking the murky glow working its way up from deep below the surface. McCree had half-entertained the notion that, when he had squinted, he could make out more neon signage through the murky water, but the train had moved on before he could be sure. 

 

The last station they passed before Swamp Bottom had been surrounded by a low wrought iron fence with simple flowing decoration, black paint flaking from rusty spots that glowed a brilliant orange in the train’s headlight. It stood alongside a stone bridge that crossed the tracks in a single wide arch, carrying a road that rose from the depths of the water only to plunge back under. The stones of the arch had been carved into faces both malignant and benign, but it had been hard to make out much detail. McCree had only been thankful the bridge rose well above the roof of the train and had nothing hanging from the keystones to hit them. 

 

It had also presaged the appearance of far more and bigger islands that appeared out of the darkness close to the tracks, which twisted and curved much more often now to avoid them. At first they had been covered with the same low grass as the islands earlier in the day, but soon clusters of tall trees were crowded onto even the smallest islet, enormous cedars mingling with smaller, bushier deciduous trees. As the train headed deeper among these islands, thick moss began to drape the branches, hanging off them in mats that threatened to sweep along the train’s sides and roof. 

 

The islands coincided with a steadily growing smell of rot, hydrogen sulfide, peat, and wet earth and clay. Swamp smell. McCree had taken it as a sign that they were nearing their destination and had kept a sharp eye out, even as Hana and the sprite snoozed in a fold of his serape. He had long since dug it out to combat the wind that became colder and crueler as the sun disappeared, using it to shield Hana, the sprite, and his own windburned face. 

 

He’d also retrieved and put on his boots. Swamps and deserts were different as night and day in most respects, but the inhabitants of each biome had to learn to respect snakes.

 

Now he stood carefully as the train rounded a slight bend and the sixth station was swept into view. It was unremarkable except for a cast iron pole that held a white clockface aloft. The train’s brakes squealed slightly as it came to slow stop. The apparition got to his feet a little unsteadily, shaking his legs slightly while quickly stepping to McCree’s side. He had lain almost motionless during the trip, his slowly rising and falling chest the only indication he was even still alive. The white mask would have been fairly unnerving as it stared across the roof, but McCree had been strangely sure that the apparition was either looking past him or looking inward.

 

McCree held out his arm, detaining him until the motors in the undercarriage powered up with a whine and the train began to pull away. “Hang on tight, Hana,” he cautioned as he took a few steps down the train, letting it pass under his feet, before he lightly leapt off the end of the train. He landed heavily, absorbing the impact with bent knees, and hearing the apparition land a little behind him with a louder clang of metal boots.

 

He turned and watched over the apparition’s shoulder as the brightly lit train disappeared around another slight bend and behind a grove of mossy trees. He switched his gaze to the white clockface. It was missing its hands and was liberally covered in lichen and dirt. The darkness closed in around them, but even so, he could discern a narrow dirt path, a leveled-off serpentine mound more than anything else, that led from just beside the hanging clock’s pole away from the platform, knifing through the water and deeper into the swamp, disappearing into a thicket that stood on a island some distance away.

 

McCree spoke, addressing himself along with everyone present. “Well, here we are.” He bit his bottom lip and worried at it a little. “I was hopin’ the way would be a little more obvious, but there seems t’be only one way t’go anyway.” He glanced down at his bathhouse attire, frowning at the thin fabric. Not very good protection against the swarms of biting insects he was half-surprised weren’t already surrounding them in a cloud. He looked up and spotted a slight silvery glow off to the right, over a thick strand of trees a few hundred meters away. 

 

“Looks like the moon will be risin’ soon. Let’s wait a little bit t’give her a chance t’light the way. In the meantime, I’m goin’ t’change into my gear here.” He squatted and took his hat, body armor, holsters, Peacekeeper, chaps, pants, and underwear out of the sack. He paused and looked at Hana and the sprite sitting on her back, nearly hidden behind her alert and upright ears. “So, um, ladies,” he started, and damned if Hana didn’t tilt her head  _ ever _ so innocently. He scowled. If he never had to see that look on a rabbit ever again--

 

“This here’s a swamp, and I don’ trust anything in it as far as I can throw it as far as you’re concerned,” he continued. “So I’m gonna hide you in the sack while I change.” Hana rolled her eyes, but the sprite pulsed twice and flew into the sack of its own accord as McCree held the sides up on the ground. He nodded at it, and Hana slowly made her way down his arm before plopping in rather inelegantly. The burlap was thick enough to hold itself up as McCree shuffled away, shaking his head. He glanced up at the apparition looming above him. He raised an eyebrow. “You here for a show?” 

 

And damned if the  _ apparition _ didn’t tilt his head ever so slightly before turning around.

 

McCree changed as quickly as he could.

 

He stood, combing his fingers through his windswept hair before dropping his hat into place. He stomped his feet a little, just to hear the reattached spurs jingle. If he was honest with himself, it all needed a bit of a wash, but he was feeling very comfortable nevertheless. “Back in the saddle,” he smiled at himself.

 

By that time, the almost round yet waning moon was peeking over the treetops. The water on either side of the path glittered. 

 

He gathered Hana and the spark out of the sack and placed them on his shoulder. “Nothin’s likely to come at ya there, but keep an eye skinned,” he cautioned. Hana nodded, eyes on the distant groves of tree that stood black above the blue-silver water. He dropped his bathhouse attire in the sack, swung it over his shoulder, and turned to the apparition. “Let’s get a-goin’.”

 

Together they set off down the path, making their way carefully over the slightly uneven ground. A few stones were pressed into the damp earth, but for the most part each step produced a slight squelching sound. Low tufts of thick and wide bladed grass hugged the sides of the path where it bordered the water, with the swampy smell intensifying as they approached the grove of trees the path disappeared into. There were still no biting insects, no buzzing around his ears like he had expected. Somewhere far off in the distance a lone bird was piping, the sound low and mournful, and among the trees there were at least a few frogs or toads vocalizing to each other. They sounded nothing like in the movies McCree had grown up with or heard during his time in L’Acadiane.

 

The apparition was the first to spot the light.

 

He held out an arm to stop McCree. Hana recoiled and bared her incisors, but the apparition paid her no notice, instead pointing ahead and to the left. McCree spotted it as well: a speck of yellow light blinking as it passed behind and between the thick tree trunks of the grove. He squinted. It was hard to tell at this distance, but it didn’t seem to be the round directed beam of a flashlight. 

 

They were about thirty meters from the island that supported the grove. “Let’s wait here and see who it is,” muttered McCree. “No cover.” The apparition nodded, and he felt Hana tense, but his body armor prevented him from feeling her claws.

 

They waited a few minutes, the moon soon rising free of the treetops and painting a rippling column across the water to their right. As it came closer, the light resolved into a lantern of some kind, but it seemed to be floating along in midair. The lantern came to the edge of the grove where the path led out over the water. McCree could finally see what was holding it up.

 

He felt his jaw drop a little.

 

At first he could only make out a lumbering, burly black shape, intimidating yet fairly low to the ground for all its mass. It held the lantern aloft with a thick, powerful,  _ furred _ arm, and it seemed to be clothed in a loose-fitting shirt and pants made of pale cloth. It paused when it rounded the last tree in the grove and caught sight of them, and the harsh yellow light of the lantern revealed its broad, dark face.

 

Which had rectangular spectacles splayed across it.

 

It was a gorilla wearing glasses.

 

It regarded them curiously, only a little reserved. When no one in their little group made a move, the gorilla lumbered forward to meet them, one hand holding the lantern with the other holding some of its weight. It stopped about two meters away. From there, McCree could see the yellow irises of its eyes behind the thick lenses. McCree almost expected it to speak.

 

And it did.

 

“So, ah, are you the ones coming from the bathhouse?” The voice was deep, much deeper than McCree’s baritone, almost vibrating in McCree’s chest from sheer pitch alone. In volume, the gorilla was surprising soft-spoken, its tone deferential and almost--nervous?

 

The gorilla awkwardly pushed its glasses up its nose with the hand holding the lantern. “Uh, Fareeha is expecting a few people from there. Are you--them?” It asked, nervousness now apparent. 

 

An uncomfortable silence descended. McCree glanced at Hana. She looked back and shrugged at him. He looked at the apparition. He cocked his head, then lifted a clawed hand and tapped two knuckles against McCree’s temple.  _ You’re the only one here who can talk, genius _ , he seemed to say.

 

_ Hazte cargo. _

 

“Uh, yeah. Yes. We’re from the bathhouse.” He bit his bottom lip at his uncertain tone. Forcing himself to straighten a little, he asked, “You say Fareeha sent you?”

 

The gorilla nodded, relief apparent as it waved the lantern a little. “Yes, she said you wouldn’t arrive until after dark, so she asked me to come meet you with the lantern. Lots of roots in the path, and sometimes people wander off by accident, you know?” The gorilla paused. “Oh, I’m Winston, by the way,” he said, bowing his head.

 

McCree automatically bowed his head in reply. “Nice t’meet you, Winston. I’m, uh, Mac.” He stopped for a moment, considering. Then, aware of his redundancy and letting his doubt show a little, he asked, “Fareeha--sent you?” 

 

Winston smiled as he moved to the side and waved the lantern, urging them forward. “I don’t blame you for being surprised,” he said, chuckling a little. “She’s more--accommodating, than certain family members you may know. I haven’t seen it firsthand, but she tells me her mother can be quite intimidating.” 

 

McCree glanced at Hana, who was giving Winston a hard stare from atop his shoulder. McCree himself remembered an imperious, pitiless voice as he cradled a slack dragon in his arms.

 

“Yeah,” he replied at length, moving forward slowly, giving Winston time to fall into step beside him so he could keep the gorilla in his peripheral vision. “Real intimidatin’.” 

 

Winston glanced at him, face sobering. “From what I’ve heard, you’re risking a lot coming to see her. I hope she can help; she’s always felt sorry for the people her mother enslaves.”

 

McCree couldn’t help staring at Winston for a few moments. When he remembered himself, he pretended to stumble on a rock in the path to give himself an excuse to stare at the ground instead.

 

Help was exactly what he had come to ask for, but he had expected to have to negotiate for it, to pay for it somehow. His hand wandered to his side pocket, where he had stashed the golden seal as he changed. His fingers wrapped around the metal, warm from his body heat. He didn’t know what kind of chance he had to negotiate with a sorceress, especially with her own stolen property. From the way she had spoken of and treated Han, and from Lin’s warnings, he had assumed Fareeha was as ruthless as her mother. Perhaps she was, but the way this gorilla, this Winston, spoke of her--

 

Well. Winston was an unknown, so it didn’t pay to put too much stock in what he had to say.

 

They entered the grove, leaving the leveled-off mound for much more solid ground that stretched out on either side and far ahead. The path curved slightly to the left, gradually leaving the water behind and heading into the interior of the island. The moonlight was soon masked by the overhanging branches of the surrounding trees. True to Winston’s word, thick roots spilled across the path, treacherous even in the yellow light of the lantern. Winston pointed out as many as he could, lowering the lantern to better illuminate their feet where they were entangled together enough almost to hide the path entirely. 

 

He didn’t seem to appreciate silence; soon he was listing off both common and scientific names for the surrounding flora and fauna, pointing out wildflowers and low-lying bushes that seemed to gather in small groups away from the tree trunks, where breaks in the canopy afforded more light, perhaps. More animal noises became apparent as crickets and other insects joined the frogs and toads, along with occasional melancholy calls from nocturnal birds. Winston seemed to know every sound, gasping softly and grinning when something fluttered overhead with a high squawking noise. “ _ Gorsachius goisagi _ ! A night heron!” he whispered excitedly, lowering the lantern and peering straight up. “They’re extremely rare, even here in the spirit world!”

 

McCree didn’t know what he had expected when coming to see Fareeha, but a giant talking gorilla with a sharp mind and ingenuous exuberance was not one of them.  

 

After about thirty minutes of walking, the night sky, bright with white and red stars, begin to trickle through the trunks of the trees ahead as the grove began to thin out. The sweet and sharp scent of herbs drove back the swampy air right when more lights caught McCree’s eye. They were steady and square, like windows.

 

They came to the end of the trees. Before them was an open lawn of grass colored blue by the moonlight, cut in half by a narrow road the crossed their path at a right angle, forming a small crossroads. The road ran out of sight in either direction. The path crossed it and came to a low fence enclosing a great open space dominated by a high-roofed house flanked by two smaller outbuildings. The fence was simply stacks of branches kept piled atop each other by pairs of meter-high stakes, the kind McCree had seen in New Mexico alongside creeks where groves of cottonwood trees provided the luxury of wood. The house was a single story crowned by a high sloping roof made of thatch, smoke pouring from a chimney that sat astride the crest’s fireguard.

 

“Here we are,” announced Winston, to McCree’s infinite surprise. He made to move straight across the road towards a gap in the fence, framed by three bare poles fashioned into the crudest of entrances, not even a sign hanging from it the way the ranches did back home. 

 

He stopped when he realized no one was following him. He looked back, holding the lantern high. “Is something wrong?”

 

McCree fumbled for words, glancing at Hana on his left shoulder and the apparition standing on his right. Hana looked as dumbfounded as he felt, black eyes wide, and even the apparition had cocked his head disbelievingly. 

 

“Fareeha lives  _ here? _ ” he finally blurted.

 

Winston stared at him. “Uh. Yes?” He cocked his head quizzically. “What were you expecting?”

 

“Well, um,” McCree began, vaguely gesturing at the house. “Somethin’--more,” he finished lamely.

 

Winston outright laughed, rich and deep, from his belly. “What more does she need?” he puffed out between laughs. “She’s a sorceress! Anything she needs, she makes. It’s why,” he said conspiratorially, leaning in as if to share a secret, “it pays to be her friend. I get a lot of ideas which require a lot of components. If Fareeha can’t make them herself, she knows where to find them, and all for some help around the place, some good conversation, and driving off the occasional thief,” he finished smugly, glancing over his shoulder at one of the outbuildings. 

 

McCree could only stare at him.

 

Winston waited a few moments before gesturing again with the lantern. “Shall we?”

 

McCree nodded dumbly. Winston turned away to continue through the little crossroads towards the entrance. McCree followed, movements a little wooden.

 

They crossed the road and passed through the entrance, Winston reaching up and hanging the lantern on a small hook on the lintel. Two large fields on either side of the path leading to the house were filled with ankle-high plants that seemed to be the herbs McCree could smell. 

 

Winston led them almost to the door of the house, recessed under a simple arch, before he stopped and waved them forward. “Fareeha’s inside,” he said. “Go on in, I just have to go check on something.” He ambled off and disappeared around one side of the house. 

 

McCree stiffened, then sighed. He walked past the apparition. The door was wooden and heavy with an unpolished, blackened brass knob and a tiny window set about eye-level. Orange light flickered through it. He took a deep, steadying breath, and reached for the knob. 

 

The door swung open before he could touch anything, the orange light flooding across the ground alongside the scent of herbs and flowers almost strong enough to make McCree’s eyes water. The interior was bright enough that McCree had to raise a hand against the glare.

 

“Welcome. Shoes off, please.”

 

The voice was familiar, a deep, lilting contralto. McCree hesitated for a moment, feeling Hana tremble on his shoulder. But he stepped forward, under the arch and through the door.

 

A single enormous room seemed to take up almost the entire house. A fire blazed in a large wood oven on one end off to his right, radiating heat that was felt almost uncomfortable compared with the chill outside and casting light onto a long low wooden table. McCree focused on the table at first. It was clearly old, lovingly polished yet covered with scratches and gouges. Plain white plates and dinged cutlery were spread out across it, with place settings for six. A large basket full of pastries and decorated cookies was situated in the middle. Thin cushions were gathered on the floor around the table, decorated with faded geometric designs.

 

Beyond the table was a storage area of some kind, filled with a plethora of strange shapes. Plants, flowers, herbs, and small branches wrapped up in bundles and heaped haphazardly in piles and in large steel tubs in one corner that spilled to met boxes overflowing with metallic and plastic objects ranging from simple pipes to electronic equipment covered in nests of tangled wires in the other corner.

 

“Are you coming in or what?” Fareeha asked, seemingly from nowhere, her voice equal parts amused and exasperated. McCree turned. The apparition was hovering on the threshold, looking around distrustfully. McCree shrugged at him. He would have preferred to case out the place before moving in, but he hadn’t been expecting an escort to take away every hope of surveillance. At this point they were at Fareeha’s mercy. 

 

McCree was surprised, however, that for all his worries and preoccupation about Fareeha, his instincts were unusually quiet. He wasn’t even nervous enough for his stomach to keep from rumbling embarrassingly loud when he caught the smell of fresh baked cornbread, garlic, and lamb. 

 

He wasn’t sure, but it might have been his rumbling stomach that convinced the apparition. He stepped forward into the light. The door swung closed, forcing him to move out of the way, as it revealed Fareeha Amari standing just behind it.

 

She was the younger spitting image of her mother, dark and slim with a straight nose and a determined mouth. Her shining straight shoulder-length black hair was uncovered, and McCree realized that what he thought had been earrings during their previous encounter were really gold pendants hanging from braids between her temples and her ears, bright against the inky backdrop of her hair. She was dressed in blue robes that flowed more than her mother’s, with dark blue thread winding subtle designs across the fabric. Her eyes were her most striking feature, and they set her apart from her mother in more ways than just possessing two. They were a few shades lighter, dark chocolate in place of ebony, bright and intelligent instead of smoldering and malicious, and a tattoo that dropped below her right eye like a soft musical note.

 

She was tall, almost as tall as McCree, and while in the bathhouse she had seemed powerfully muscular even when see-through, here she was an almost overwhelmingly solid presence, standing in an military posture that reminded McCree of the drill sergeants he had come across in his Blackwatch and Overwatch careers, and the sturdy and cunning women of the desert he had grown up with. 

 

She looked over their party from head to toe with a closed expression. Then she nodded at their feet. “Shoes off, I said. You can leave them by the door,” she instructed brusquely as she turned away and headed for the wood burning oven and a low stove off to one side. Several large covered pots and a kettle were sitting over  bright blue flames on the stove, steam escaping from under their lids. “You’ve had a long journey. Sit down and I’ll get you all some tea.”

 

McCree stared at her back as she gathered porcelain cups out of a cabinet and laid them alongside a teapot on a tray. He looked around the interior of the house again, the simple furniture, the piles of material haphazardly stored wherever there was room. He thought of Winston. He considered his own feelings, his rumbling stomach, his ease. He thought of Lin’s warning not to rile Fareeha. He thought of his first meeting with Amari and how it contrasted with this first meeting of Fareeha, how instead of mocking words and an invisible meathook under his sternum, she had sent an escort to help them through the dark and was now offering tea.

 

He decided to be a little audacious.

 

He leaned down and tugged off his boots, his spurs jingling merrily as Hana scrambled to avoid falling. He placed them carefully by the door, dropped the sack at their side, and brushed past the apparition. He slid one hand into his pocket and withdrew the seal as he approached Fareeha, the other sweeping off his hat. Hana started stamping on his shoulder, but he ignored her. Fareeha was stripping leaves off a spearmint plant and dropping them into the teacups as black tea leaves steeped in the teapot.

 

“Miss Fareeha?” he asked tentatively. She turned and her eyes immediately went to the seal in his hand as he offered it to her. “Han was ordered to steal this from you. I came to return it,” he said in a formal tone as he stood at semi-attention. 

 

Fareeha made no move for a couple of moments. Then she took the seal from his hand and held it up, inspecting it as it glittered in the firelight from the wood oven. “Did you?” she murmured. “Do you know what it is you’re returning?”

 

McCree swallowed. “It’s--a seal. I don’t rightly know what exactly goes with it, but I know it’s worth something, if Amari sent Han to steal it.”

 

Fareeha smiled slightly, still inspecting the seal. “Oh, yes, ‘something’ indeed, but I was referring more to the protection spell that should have killed you when you touched it.”

 

McCree set his lips into a straight line. “The one that almost killed Han? We killed it,” he almost growled.

 

Fareeha’s eyes snapped to his. “‘Killed it’? Killed what?” She sounded perplexed.

 

McCree blinked. “Um. That little black thing, right? The one on the seal? It scurried away, but my friend Bastion stepped on it and killed it.”

 

Fareeha stared at him for a moment. “That dragon is more powerful than I thought,” she murmured before a wide smile spread across her face. “But you squashed that bug?” McCree nodded uncertainly. “That wasn’t the protection spell. That was a bug my mother snuck into her slave to destroy him if she chose.” Her smile turned into a wolfish grin at McCree’s horrified expression. McCree winced when she clapped a hand soundly on his uncovered shoulder, jostling him.“You’ve done more for him than either of you realize. Well done!” she said with a burst of laughter. She guided him towards the table. “I take hospitality very seriously, but you’ve made things a lot easier for me. Now that I can trust you, we can speak much more openly. Sit down and rest, all of you,” she said, gesturing at the apparition, who stood next to the door, unmoving. “Keep the boots on if you’d like, they look like a bitch to take on and off. Just keep them off the cushions.” 

 

The apparition only cocked his head.

 

McCree suddenly became aware of Hana on his shoulder. She was staring at Fareeha with a mixture of incredulity and interest mixed on her rabbit face, head tilted and ears lifted high. The spark was sitting atop her head, pulsing softly. He swallowed. Fareeha had taken the return of her property fairly well; maybe he could capitalize on that on Hana’s behalf.

 

“Miss Fareeha?”

 

Fareeha waved her hand dismissively as she turned back towards the kitchen and the waiting tea tray. “Just Fareeha. Hospitality is sacred, but titles aren’t.”

 

McCree blinked and hesitantly said, “Fareeha. I don’ know if you remember Hana--”

 

“I don’t turn many people into rabbits, cowboy,” Fareeha interrupted, laughing. “Hana, is it?” she asked without turning from the tea tray, where she was pouring cups of black tea into each cup, the mint leaves swirling in the dark liquid. “I’m surprised you’re still a rabbit. Pardon my callousness, but I just meant to annoy my mother more than anything. The spell wore off ages ago. You and that lightsmith of yours can turn back at any time.”

 

McCree looked down at Hana. She seemed to be all surprise. She looked up at McCree, the spark bouncing slightly. They stared at each other for a few moments. 

 

Then Hana gave a quick shrug and gestured with a paw at the table, specifically at the basket in the middle, piled high with treats.

 

McCree felt his face fall into a bemused expression. “Are you serious?” he asked disbelievingly. Hana could only reply with a smug look and another gesture at the basket. He could only shake his head as he scooped her off his shoulder and plopped her on the table. She headed straight for the basket, the spark bobbing on her head as she loped forward.

 

“Amari almost killed me over this,” he muttered quietly to himself as he sat crosslegged on one of the cushions and placed his hat next to him on the floor. His socked feet immediately began throbbing, already unaccustomed to walking so long in boots. He rubbed at them absently.

 

“In fairness, my mother has probably almost killed you over many things,” said Fareeha as she brought the tray over and deposited a cup in front of McCree. She straightened and looked at the apparition. “So, goryō, are you going to sit? Out of all the people in this room, you have the least reason to distrust me.” 

 

The apparition was still for a few moments longer before slowly stepping forward and kneeling on the cushion to McCree’s left. Fareeha left a teacup in front of him before setting down two more by Hana and the spark. Hana was already surrounded with crumbs as she consumed a cookie larger than her head with impressive speed. Fareeha laughed at the display as she kneeled directly across from McCree. “I see I shouldn’t have set out places for six. You won’t be needing anymore after all that,” she chided gently. Hana waved with a small paw as she dragged another cookie out of the basket with her teeth.

 

Fareeha smiled before focusing on McCree. “Now, cowboy. Why have you come here?”

 

McCree gave her a tired smile. “I came t’negotiate a good price for the seal.”

 

“Something better than nothing, you mean?”

 

“Somethin’ like,” he sighed. “But Amari stole it. It’s yours. In the end, I can’ do anythin’ more than return it.” 

 

Fareeha’s eyes glinted. “That is just. Do you regret it?”

 

McCree laughed, a little self-consciously. “Only so far as I still need help and have nothin’ to pay for it.”

 

Fareeha nodded slowly. “Yes, that is true. However, even if I had been willing to barter for my own seal, there isn’t much I could have done for you. I took very little my mother considers valuable with me when I fled. You would have been back where you started.” 

 

“Valuables don’ mean much,” replied McCree, bowing his head and staring at his still-steaming tea cup, the mint leaves drifting across the surface. “Han and Shi were in charge of some place. I dunno how rich they are, but I’m bettin’ money was never much of an issue. Just their names.”

 

“Their names and their pride,” corrected Fareeha. “But now it seems it really is just their names.” McCree looked up, eyes narrowed. Fareeha hid a mysterious smile behind her cup as she lifted it to take a sip and breathe in the steam. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, either. They both arrived long after I left, and my travels and knowledge haven’t extended to the human world yet. I haven’t been to their little kingdom, nor have I met anyone who may know their names.”

 

McCree furrowed his eyebrows. “What d’you mean, the human world? They’re from--” he paused. 

 

_ Water rushed past, threatening to tear his hands away from where they gripped so hard his forearms were almost cramping. His chest burned with conflicting instincts: his lungs were half-empty under the immense water pressure, yet the air within was hot and stale and straining to be released.  _

 

“Ain’ they?” he whispered, eyes still turned inward.

 

Fareeha lowered her cup to the table with a gentle  _ clink _ . She studied McCree’s face.

 

“Memory,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, “is a universal constant.” 

 

McCree refocused on her, frowning. “What d’you mean?”

 

She tapped the side of her cup, the tea sloshing from side-to-side rhythmically. “There is something about our worlds, spirit, human, and the rest, which seems to value memory, which craves to make a record as time flows from the future into the past,” she paused and tapped her own forehead. “Intelligent beings like to think we have the best capacity to remember, but we are by no means the only ones capable of it. Animals obviously remember many details of their lives, and many pass on their knowledge to the next generation. So-called lesser beings, plants, insects, the many smaller creatures that escape our eyes, have myriad ways to pass on their experiences. This will to remember is even present in the act of creation; a plant exposed to drought will ensure that its offspring are prepared to conserve water until the rains come again.”

 

She paused and shook her head slightly as she looked about the room. “But it goes further than that. Supposedly inanimate objects are expected to remember. You have seen them at the bathhouse,” she snorted inelegantly. “Spirits who were once simply chairs or brooms or tables who have witnessed so much that they simply  _ must _ move about in order to protect the memory of still, empty rooms over decades or centuries. Imagine that! An empty room is deemed worthy of remembrance.” She chuckled softly as took another sip. McCree was too engrossed to pay any attention to his cup.

 

“In the end, the worlds end up under a continual watch of multiple witnesses, with overlapping, redundant observers, to make sure that anything that happens is remembered in some way. But what is most surprising is that everything that happens to us individually is recorded, even if, by accident or design, we cannot recall it. Perhaps, sometimes, it is a protection against the many terrible things that happen to us,” Fareeha surmised, looking into her nearly empty cup. “Perhaps sometimes it is a way for us to bond to each other. Where one cannot remember, another can help.” McCree glanced at the apparition. The apparition’s head was bowed, the mask invisible beneath his hood. 

 

“So if you feel that you have met this dragon boyfriend of yours before,” said Fareeha, smiling knowingly as McCree’s eyes snapped to hers as his cheeks began to heat, “it is likely that you have. And wouldn’t that make everything easy?” she finished, a slight teasing edge to her voice.

 

McCree almost retorted with something impolite, but another memory stopped him while his words were half-formed in his mouth. 

 

_ “One more question. It’s an easy one, I swear. Wha’s yer name?” _

 

_ Han lowered his gaze, staring at the ground, almost as if he were sad. He spoke, with what McCree was sure was a falsely even tone: “They call me Han.” _

 

They  _ had _ met before. It wasn’t a suspicion or a supposition. Han had remembered him, had remembered his name even. McCree had impossibly appeared out of nowhere, out of the past, an opportunity to escape at long last.

 

But McCree hadn’t remembered him in return.

 

Almost simultaneously, he felt the apparition surge to his feet beside him. He looked up at him in surprise. The apparition’s fists were clenched tight as he returned his look, shoulders tensed, arms wound up tight. He spun on his heel and stalked his way to the door, twisting the knob and shouldering it aside. A deep yelp of surprise accompanied the motion as he disappeared out the doorway, the door itself wavering slightly on its hinges before a dark paw took a hold of it and Winston poked his head through the doorway.

 

“That scared me,” he admitted with an awkward laugh. “Uh. Everything’s secure out here, Fareeha. Should I go after him or--?”

 

“No,” said McCree as he quickly got to his feet. “I will. I didn’ realize what I was doin’.” He nodded at Fareeha. “Thank ye kindly.”

 

“Don’t run off. You’re welcome to stay the night,” she returned. “Winston and I will prepare supper. Go speak to him first.” 

 

McCree thanked her again as he turned and swiftly walked to the door. Winston waved him through before ambling into the house and shutting the door behind him, leaving McCree blinking rapidly in the darkness outside. He looked around, searching for the apparition and cursing his black attire in the black night. His eyes finally adjusted, but he couldn’t see him anywhere. 

 

McCree jogged to the gap in the fence, peering down the road but seeing nothing. He turned back, just in time to see a dark shape disappear around a corner of the house. McCree breathed a sigh of relief and followed. He hesitated briefly before rounding the corner. But he had already caused Han pain by not remembering his name. He couldn’t keep the apparition waiting when he almost certainly knew his.

 

He went around the corner of the house. A backless bench stood about halfway down the wall, between two small windows that threw two elongated rectangles of light across the ground. The apparition was standing to one side of it, back to McCree. 

 

McCree sighed, walked to the bench, and sat heavily, leaning against the rough plaster of the wall behind. He allowed himself a few breaths’ worth of silence before he spoke. “I’m sorry. I don’ know what t’expect from this.” He paused, thinking of the faceless and formless spirits he had seen, before he continued, “But I’m bein’ selfish.” He took a deep breath. “Your name is Gabriel Reyes.”

 

A long moment passed, punctuated only by the sounds of insects chirping in the distance.

 

A clawed gauntlet slowly lifted and lowered, the white avian mask glowing softly in the ambient moonlight.

 

“Bout time,  _ vaquero _ . How long were you going to wait?”

 

And he turned.

 

McCree sucked in a breath at the face he never thought he would see again, though it was greatly altered. It was haggard and disfigured. Gabriel’s cheeks were strips of flesh stretched over exposed molars shining a pearly blue. His eyes were featureless and black, and at first McCree could see nothing more than the void of the mask’s eyeholes, but as Gabriel moved to sit beside him on the bench, ambient light from the windows and starlight from above were caught in the black orbs, glimmering in the surrounding dark. 

 

He sat as heavily as McCree had, exhaling forcefully.

 

McCree, meanwhile, was a sea of turbulent emotion, looking away across Fareeha’s fields and the surrounding fence. He struggled to control his breathing, felt sweat break out across his body as heat enveloped him. Tears stung at his eyes and his stomach clenched. He kept absolutely still, waiting for the storm to calm at least a little before he attempted to speak again.

 

He wanted to be flippant, to be easygoing and confident, to be the cowboy the man sitting beside him had helped him to become, but as the silence wound on and on, McCree was beginning to think that it would be completely impossible to be anything but a blubbering mess.

 

He managed to get past the blubbering.

 

“Can’ blame me too much. Didn’ know what I’d be facin’,” he muttered, voice strained.

 

Gabriel gave a short bark of a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’ve been trying to get by with a total of about ten memories, and fifty more half-memories. Little frustrating there, for a while.”

 

McCree glanced at him. “And now?”

 

Gabriel smiled, dark and cracked lips stretching. “I remember you owe me two hundred bucks.”

 

McCree stared for a few seconds, then began to laugh, loud and deep, from his belly. It went on for an embarrassingly long time, the tears that had gathered in his eyes before finally leaking out and trailing down his flushed cheeks as he leaned forward over his knees, coughing and laughing in turns. Gabriel waited for him patiently, still smiling, his upper and lower molars lightly touching behind the remains of his cheeks.

 

McCree finally got himself mostly under control, stray chuckles still erupting from him as he leaned back against the wall again, arms crossed, hands clutching at his aching sides, breathing heavily. “I’ll get that t’you,” he gasped out, wincing at his protesting abdominal muscles, “as soon as I can.”

 

Gabriel waved a gauntlet. “Forget it. Not much around here to buy with it.”

 

McCree chuckled and hiccuped. “I never thought I’d hear you--well. Say anythin’, really.” 

 

That brought on another silence.

 

Gabriel broke it. “Who?”

 

“Siong.” 

 

Gabriel nodded. “She’ll do good.”

 

McCree nodded back, hesitated a moment, then ventured, “I transferred. To Overwatch.”

 

“Good,” Gabriel replied. He rolled his eyes at McCree’s shocked expression. “Look in a mirror and tell me you were  _ meant _ for covert ops.” 

 

“I do like gettin’ t’pick out my duds,” admitted McCree with a small smile. Gabriel snorted.

 

“And Jack?”

 

McCree felt the blood drain a little from his face. He reached up to pull the brim of his hat over his eyes, but with a jolt he realized he had left it inside the house. He rubbed his eyes, instead. “He’s--he’s why I’m here.”

 

He swore he could feel Gabriel’s sharp look. “What did that dumbass do?”

 

McCree shifted his weight, the bench creaking slightly beneath him. “We were goin’ after some smugglers, and we found--I dunno, a gateway, I guess? We thought they went that way, so we went through and Morrisson found a restaurant decked out with food. Turns out you gotta be a spirit t’eat it, though.”

 

Gabriel swore under his breath, leaning back and thumping the back of his head against the wall. “Never could keep his hands off good food,” he muttered. Then, loudly, “So where is he and why haven’t you broken him out?”

 

“He turned into a pig,” said McCree baldly, still rubbing his eyes. “A literal pig. And I dunno if you saw, Gabo, but there’s a big ass river runnin’ next to that town, but it wasn’ there when we first got there. It appeared when the sun set, so I couldn’ go get help. And when the sun goes down, humans apparently fade unless they have at least a little somethin’ t’eat. That when I found--”

 

“Your boyfriend?” Gabriel’s voice was almost completely deadpan, except for the tiniest teasing edge. “Enlighten me: which one’s your boyfriend? The one with the scars or the one with the scales?”

 

McCree dropped his hand from his face and glared. “Shove it, old man.”

 

Gabriel grinned. “Answer the question.” 

 

“Neither.” 

 

Gabriel waited, still grinning.

 

McCree bowed his head and slouched, digging his chin into his chest. “The scales,” he groaned, eyes clenched shut.

 

“Should’ve known. You never did like anyone you haven’t threatened to shoot at least once, have you?”

 

Goddamn it, thought McCree as his cheeks burned. 

 

“But you can’t remember his name, huh?” Gabriel tapped two knuckles against McCree’s temple. “That’s embarrassing. What  _ do _ you remember?” 

 

McCree sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I dunno,” he confessed. “Feelings, mostly, impressions. Feels like I’m sinkin’ and movin’ through water, and holdin’ on to somethin’ that’s pullin’ me. I  _ think _ that’d be Han, but I can’ remember for sure. Dunno where, dunno when.” 

 

Gabriel was silent for a few moments. 

 

“Hanamura, three years after we picked you up from the Deadlocks.”

 

McCree felt like the breath had been physically knocked out of him. He rolled his head bonelessly to look at Gabriel, eyes wide. “What?”

 

Gabriel looked back innocently. “The guy’s a Japanese dragon, so you probably met him in Japan. Unless he travels a lot?” McCree shook his head mutely. Not that he knew of. “And unless you’ve been holding back on me, you’ve only been to Japan on Blackwatch missions. I can think of four times you were knocked into water. If you can’t remember details, you probably suffered head trauma. That only happened in Hanamura. You can’t remember much of anything about that mission, right?”

 

“No,” breathed McCree. “I can’.”

 

Gabriel nodded, a smug look on his tattered face that was slowly overtaken by a more thoughtful expression. “I do, a little,” he mused. “Surveillance mission, mostly. You were tailing a suspected arms dealer. Something spooked them or you all blew your cover while you were crossing a bridge. You got knocked off during the firefight. The rest of the team found you twenty or thirty minutes later, unconscious on the shore. They got you to the hospital, you took a month or two to recover from the concussion, and the world moved on.”

 

McCree hauled himself back up into a sitting position as Gabriel spoke, thinking hard as he described the mission. His breath hitched as the recollections came to him, just as fractured and transitory as his memories of Han. It was as he said: a flash of watching a vehicle’s taillights on a deserted road, the sharp reports of gunfire as he crouched behind the bulletproof door of their transport, a jolt as something skittered across the pavement towards him, a brief image of the bridge from below, its girders dark against the clear blue sky, and then--

 

“The river.”

 

“What?”

 

“And I wanna say--a forest? A national forest?” McCree’s eyes were lost in a thousand-yard stare. 

 

“You’re not making sense,  _ vaquero _ .” 

 

That pulled McCree back. “Sorry, boss,” he muttered. A pause, and then, “I can’ believe I didn’ connect the dots.” 

 

Gabriel threw his head back and laughed, the hood falling from his head to reveal his untidy curly black hair. McCree stared and listened, trying to commit the sight and sound to memory. “That’s why  _ I _ was in charge,” he teased. “You probably would’ve, eventually, when you weren’t running for your life from your old--” Gabriel cut himself off, shifting uncomfortably. Then, gruffly, “Will that help your boyfriend at all?” 

 

McCree considered for a few moments. “Maybe,” he said at last. “Still no ‘Hello, My Name is--’ stickers that I can remember, but now I know what t’focus on.”

 

Gabriel shrugged. “The rest is up to you, then.”

 

“Yeah, I reckon it is.” 

 

Gabriel stood. Then, tone serious, “Thanks. And sorry.” 

 

McCree looked up at him. “Me, too.” 

 

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

 

“Take your pick.” McCree smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’ there. I made it to the funeral. Dress blues, didn’ even wear the hat.”

 

Gabriel reached out and tapped two knuckles against his temple. “You should have,” he admonished. “Never looked good without it.” 

 

McCree tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “What-what was it like?”

 

Gabriel shrugged. “One moment there, the next--” He shrugged again. 

 

“Doesn’ sound so bad.”

 

“Well--it was rough until some idiot said my name.” 

 

McCree let out a puff of air, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. Hopefully when my time comes someone will be around to say mine.” 

 

“Depend on it.” 

 

McCree swallowed again and nodded.

 

Around the front of the house, the door opened and Winston’s deep voice called out. “Hey out there! Supper’s ready! Are you out there? Hello?”

 

“Yeah!” McCree half-shouted. “We’re a-comin’.” 

 

Gabriel stretched, sighing as his back audibly popped. “First meal in a long time. W-well--” he stuttered, eyes widening a little when he realized.

 

McCree huffed. “Don’. Just--get inside. I’ll be in in a sec.”

 

Gabriel patted his shoulder paternally before walking away and around the corner. McCree grinned a little when Winston gave another little yelp when he caught sight of him. Gabriel only grunted in reply before the door thudded shut.

 

McCree leaned back against the wall, casting his gaze upwards. The stars shone steadily above, hardly flickering at all, like pinpricks in black paper. McCree didn’t see them. His mind was far away, examining the half-formed shadows of a mission that had gone far more awry than he had ever realized. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like a talking gorilla is at least as surprising as a hopping lamp.
> 
> I hope you're having a pleasant holiday season and a Happy New Year!! Your support for this fic has been a real balm for the end of this year, and I'm truly grateful!!!
> 
> Translation:
> 
> Hazte cargo.  
> Take charge.


	12. An Old and a New Contract

The moon peeked around the edge of the thatched roof, shining a few stray rays into McCree’s unseeing eyes and rousing him from his thoughts. He leaned forward and stood with a groan, scratching the back of his head with his metal arm as he peered at the uneven white sliver visible past the jagged edges of the thatch, wondering how long he had been out there thinking. Too long to be polite, in all probability.

 

A slight breeze picked up as he moved toward the corner of the house, briefly overwhelming the herbs with swamp smell. The leaves on the trees beyond the fence rustled, and he shivered as a flash of the paper birds passed through his mind.

 

Even so, it wasn’t enough to distract him as he let his head fall forward slightly and frowned in concentration.

 

Hanamura.

 

He absently twisted the brass doorknob and stepped blinking into the brightly lit interior. He wrinkled his nose once more at the strong smell of herbs and spices and waited for his eyes to stop watering before focusing once more on the table.

 

Fareeha was now seated at the head of the table, Hana sitting on the table by her right elbow and Gabriel kneeling on the cushion to her left. Hana was sitting more primly and calmly than he had ever seen her, looking at Fareeha’s face attentively. The spark was sitting off to her side, shining steadily in Hana’s shadow. Gabriel, on the other hand, was casually leaning forward onto the table with one elbow, chin cupped in his hand, head slightly tilted. He still had his boots on, but he seemed to be following Fareeha’s orders and keeping the slightly mud-caked soles far from the cushion’s frilly border, even if his large legs were still slightly sprawled under his weight.

 

Fareeha was also leaning forward, though she kept her arms folded across her chest as she did so. Her head was tilted just so to let her hair fall over her cheeks, the gold pendants flashing as they swayed slightly in the flicker of the firelight.

 

It looked for all the world like a conference, and McCree knew Gabriel’s body language well enough to know he liked what he was hearing. Hana’s attentive posture was surprising and slightly alarming. Perhaps most concerning of all, McCree caught a rather satisfied look in the set of her lips and her warm eyes even as Fareeha smoothed her face into a welcoming yet neutral expression as she turned to face him.

 

“Welcome back, cowboy. Ready to eat?”

 

McCree hadn’t eaten all day, and his earlier rumbling stomach had been quelled only by the prospect of speaking with Gabriel. Now, back where he could make out the smell of cornbread and roasted lamb, his stomach was roaring to life with a vengeance, tearing through McCree’s misgivings and suspicions like wet tissue paper. Still, as he nodded slowly and wiped his socked feet on the multicolored doormat, he ventured to say, “All y’all seem t’be gettin’ along pretty well there.”

 

Hana looked at him innocently as Gabriel chuckled. “Surprisingly well,” he said without turning around. “Never had to have a translator for a rabbit before.”

 

That startled a chuckle out of McCree. “That woulda been useful a couple times,” he said as he made his way to the table. To Gabriel’s left was a small wooden box set upside down over the surface of the table. McCree knelt and lifted it up, releasing a small cloud of steam. Underneath was a large bowl with a smaller plate at its side piled high with crumbly pieces of cornbread. The bowl contained limp, dark green, spinach-like leaves and chunks of lamb swimming in a thick broth. It smelled strongly of garlic and coriander. McCree swept up a spoon and cautiously tasted it. The leaves were bitter, but the dish as a whole was savory and spicy, and McCree would be hardpressed to turn down anything that included lamb.

 

He was soon eating enthusiastically, but part of his enthusiasm stemmed from sensing that the little group was waiting to talk business as soon as he was done.

 

“I wish to do something for you as you eat, if you’re willing,” said Fareeha after acknowledging McCree’s compliments for the food.

 

That stopped him short for a moment. “What kind of somethin’?”

 

Fareeha smiled. “Something to help you when even your luck runs out.” She signalled him to continue eating as she stood and headed for the kitchen. Winston was washing dishes in a great basin next to the stove, astoundingly quiet for someone his size.  

 

McCree chewed thoughtfully as the featureless black orbs that made up Gabriel’s eyes flickered to his face. They glinted in the light, two tiny images of the room reflected in the inky depths. They were, McCree thought distantly, far easier to look into than the void of the avian mask. Perhaps that was why the otherwise disconcerting sight failed to provoke any fear in him.

 

“What are you up to?” he asked Gabriel quietly, glancing at Hana to include her in the question.

 

Gabriel waved his free hand glibly. “We were talking about the future,” he replied, his tone betraying little.

 

“Yeah?” McCree raised an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah, but business always kills your appetite and you’ve run your paces today. So eat.” Gabriel idly prodded the table with a claw as Hana looked at the pastry basket with a calculating look. McCree followed orders. The bowl soon stood empty and almost completely clean as he used pieces of cornbread to mop up the remaining broth. Winston appeared at his side with another bowlful, and McCree was gladly accepting it when Fareeha walked back into the room through a door at the kitchen’s left. In one hand she had several small wooden rods. In the other was a small bowl ornamented with falcons that proved to be an inkwell as she settled at McCree’s left side. McCree leaned forward to peer inside as she set it down on the table and blinked in surprise at the golden liquid as it sloshed slightly from her movements, scintillating in the light.

 

He started slightly when she gently took his metal hand in hers and brushed his serape off the skull design that took up most of his forearm. She contemplated it for several quiet moments before she tapped the skull’s forehead with one of the rods, which were tapered to a blunt end.

 

“You chose this?”

 

McCree ducked his head. “Seemed pretty badass,” he muttered, feeling a flush of embarrassment. Fareeha, for her part, chuckled softly.

 

“Not many of us get to choose our bodies,” she mused, “It must be quite heady to walk alongside death yet escape her clutches so often. You can be forgiven for being arrogant enough to adorn yourself like this.”

 

Gabriel snorted and McCree scowled at him briefly before turning back to Fareeha. “I was only a kid-”

 

“He was twenty-five,” muttered Gabriel to Hana’s questioning look.

 

“-and I was lucky t’be alive when I got it, so, yeah, I guess I was flipping off the world. Didn’ see no reason not t’get more of the same as I got older, neither,” he added as he elbowed Gabriel.

 

Fareeha nodded and chuckled as she traced the elongated teeth of the skull until they disappeared into McCree’s articulated wrist. “The world deserves scorn at times,” she said lightly. “But your luck has preserved you from retribution, some just, some not. If you’d like, I can balance out the design a bit, take the edge off as it were.”

 

McCree eyed her dubiously. “How?”

 

Fareeha placed his metal hand flat on the table, palm down and fingers spread, before dipping the tapered end of the rod into the inkwell. A thin stream dripped from the end as she lifted it, a liquid thread of gold that flashed in the light. “A word and a symbol, an affirmation if you will, to act as a ward. It’ll do much to protect you when everything else-wisdom, courage, compassion and luck-fails. You’ll still be vulnerable,” she said, amused, when McCree opened his mouth. “But it will, perhaps, lessen your pain in many ways, and guide you when even your immense luck leads you astray.”

 

McCree bit his lip, considering. “If it’ll help that much,” he said slowly, “Y’might wanna put it somewhere else. I’ve lost this arm before, and I probably will again.”

 

“You recall what I said about memory? You often feel the ‘lost’ hand, because your body remembers the limb as it was before you replaced it. It will remember this in a similar way.” McCree furrowed his eyebrows at that, but nodded, hesitantly at first then with more conviction at Fareeha’s disarming, pleased expression. She gestured at the full bowl of stew in front of him. “Eat, but try not to move your arm while I’m working.”

 

McCree nodded again and carefully lifted the spoon to his mouth as he watched her. She dipped the rod, her pen, into the golden liquid, tapping it carefully on the side of the inkwell, before she leisurely and concisely swept the tip across the broad plate that made up the back of his metallic hand. The golden lines contrasted pleasantly with the grey titanium, and though he was reluctant to look too closely for fear of accidentally jostling his hand or Fareeha, it seemed to him like the ink would bead on the surface of his hand for a moment before sinking into the metal itself like mercury into aluminium.

 

The room was quiet as Fareeha worked, Hana and Gabriel almost as absorbed in watching her work as McCree was. Winston puttered around the room, mostly poking at the pile of electronic equipment in one corner as he consulted a thick book that flopped open in one giant hand. He carefully avoided the table except for monitoring the amount of stew in McCree’s bowl, which dropped much more slowly this time around as McCree observed the strokes reveal themselves to be stylized Arabic script, the broad, tapering lines and squared-off dots sweeping from a bulbous base and narrowing as they approached his wrist.

 

Fareeha didn’t speak for nearly fifteen minutes before, still focused on McCree’s hand, suddenly said, “You must return to the bathhouse.”

 

McCree tore his eyes from her work and sighed, swirling his spoon in the dregs of the stew. “I know.” He glanced at Gabriel, who, while scowling, did not look as angry as he expected. He gave him a questioning look, and Gabriel shrugged.

 

“It’s that damned contract,” he growled. “If you don’t go back, your life is forfeit. You weren’t kidding when you said I was digging your grave. That’s exactly what Amari will do, from what Fareeha says.”

 

“It would probably be a little worse than that,” murmured Fareeha, still engrossed in her work.

 

McCree laughed, hollowly. “She wouldn’ let herself stop at a ‘little worse’--beggin’ your pardon,” he added cautiously. Fareeha only made a small noise in reply.

 

“So the question is,” Gabriel continued, “how do we get you back without Amari tearing you apart as soon as she sees you?”

 

McCree shrugged, taking care to do so only with his right shoulder. “I dunno,” he said quietly. “I was hopin’ t’get Han and Shi’s names and use that as a distraction. Probably would’ve only focused her rage on me, t’be honest.”

 

“Unless they were ‘thankful’ enough,” said Gabriel, using actual air quotes, “to run home and grab some ransom money to free you before she could do anything, but otherwise that is a terrible plan, _vaquero_.” He drummed his claws on the table with a clinking noise before surprising McCree with a small smile. “Good thing we already got your ticket back right here.” McCree cocked his head questioningly, and Gabriel in turn nodded at Hana, sitting uncharacteristically still and quiet next to the basket, meeting McCree’s look squarely when his eyes settled on her.

 

McCree swallowed. “I don’ think that’s a good idea.” Hana got to her feet and unhurriedly loped forward and placed a tiny, soft paw on his flesh wrist. He looked down at her and felt a twinge in his chest. “Look, Hana,” he began, “I don’ know how you ended up with Amari--”

 

“She found her, years ago, in the wilds.” Fareeha had now taken a firm hold of McCree’s arm, steadying it as she bent over his hand, her hair falling over it and hiding it from view. “She doesn’t remember how she got there, only that she was very young and alone for a long time before Amari found her on one of her errands. I was long gone by then, and so--” she trailed off, though it was hard to tell if it was from concentration or emotion. After a few moments, she continued, with a slightly more distracted voice, “She adopted her as her daughter, but with certain--safeguards, I suppose. When I was young, I was given free reign of the bathhouse. My mother was surprised when I didn’t dismiss her workers’ slavery as completely as she did. She must’ve decided that was the root of my rebellion, because she’s kept Hana as far away from them as possible.”

 

Hana’s paw twitched at those words, and McCree glanced at her to see her trembling slightly, not from fear, but from anger, her eyes narrowed and focused into the distance and her incisors slightly bared. “Hana says that she would catch glimpses of them from time to time, but for the most part she’s only been allowed to be in my mother’s company and in the company of a few, trusted, mostly silent servants.”

 

“She’s angry.” Hana punctuated the statement by stamping her hind legs on the table, sending a tremor through the solid wood. “Now that she’s seen what’s going on in the bathhouse, now that she knows how much Amari has lied to her, she’s angry, and justifiably so.”

 

“Then that settles it,” broke in McCree, almost forgetting to keep still from the urge to place a hand atop Hana’s paw as it rested on his wrist. “She’s not goin’ back. Can she,” he paused, staring at Fareeha behind her curtain of hair, willing her to look him in the eye. As she continued to stoop over his hand, he rushed on, ignoring the frantic tapping of Hana’s paw on his wrist. “Can she stay here with you? Would she be safe here?”

 

“She doesn’t want to stay. She wants to go back.”

 

“No.” McCree looked down at Hana, directly in the eye. She stared back defiantly, even as he growled, “That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You ain’ goin’ back, kid. She’ll tear you and half the bathhouse apart if you confront her.”

 

“She knows. She’s not going back to pick a fight. She’s going back as my spy,” said Fareeha evenly.

 

McCree glared at the back of her head, his ire and distrust spiking. “You’ll excuse me,” he sneered, “if I wanna hear that from _her_ and not from you actin’ as her _spokesperson_.”

 

Before Fareeha could reply, Hana began squeaking and chittering even as she glowered at McCree. Fareeha didn’t move until the lapine diatribe was over before saying, “It would be painful. Your body isn’t meant to have them; it’d be easier to just turn back completely.” Hana rolled her eyes expressively before offering a few short chitters. Fareeha chuckled. “Stubborn. But of course I can.” Hana gave a single squeak of acknowledgment before--

 

“Ow! Goddammit!” yelled McCree as a fist came down on his flesh hand, hard. He jerked away, Fareeha holding his other arm in a steel grip that kept it remarkably stationary. He shook his flesh hand, feeling it throb, as he glared resentfully up into Hana’s triumphant, grinning face, her white teeth gleaming and contrasting with her pink warpaint and her blue, pink, and white jumpsuit. Her straight brown hair was ruffled and sticking out in odd places from when she had swung her body to add force to the hit. She towered over him from her position kneeling on the low table, which creaked and protested under her sudden weight.  

 

“That ain’ how you treat people, little girl!” he fumed, flexing his fingers experimentally, testing for broken bones.

 

“There you go again, calling me ‘kid’ and ‘little girl’!” Hana fired back, shaking her fist at him threateningly.

 

“I’ll call ‘em as I sees ‘em, and right now you are a little upstart, brat!” returned McCree, eyes glinting dangerously as he leaned forward. “You think hittin’ me will convince me t’let you go back? You’ll just do the same thing t’Amari when you see her, and then she’ll be paintin’ the walls with your innards!”

 

Hana crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, almost throwing off McCree with how similar it was to her rabbit form, but he brushed it aside with his frustration.

 

“Alright, I’m _sorry_ ,” she conceded, “But this is the only way to save _you_ , you know. We can say I was _so scared_ of the goryō,” she said as her grin was replaced with a tremulous lip and wide, scared eyes, “that I ran away, and you followed me to make sure I was safe.” She winked as she leaned back onto her calves. “She’s already feeling guilty for not recognizing me, I guarantee it. I can play that up, maybe even get you your freedom!”

 

“Yeah, you could play it up,” allowed McCree, “But how far is too far, before she turns on you?” Hana looked confused, so he clarified. “How much can you ‘play it up’ before she’s angry instead of guilty? Do you know?” Hana stared back, a little less resolutely. “And if you _do_ make her angry, will she take it out on you or others first?” Hana opened her mouth to say answer, hesitated, and then dropped her gaze, which was answer enough.

 

McCree leaned back, and, more gently now, said, “You’ll have t’live with what she does, then.” He was silent for a moment, then, voice heavy, “And there’s always a line. Once you cross it, it doesn’ matter what you say or do afterward, she’ll come after you. Do you know where that line is?”

 

“No,” Hana whispered. “I don’t.” But before McCree could reply, she drew herself up and fixed him with a challenging look. “But you wouldn’t either, if you were me. Would that stop you?”

 

He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, it might.” He braced himself for her disappointment, but she only gave him an exasperated look. “There are some things you can’ help, Hana,” he chided. “Sometimes you gotta cut your losses and get out while you can.”

 

“Oh, like you did?” she countered. “You had your ticket out, and you gave it to her,” she said, nodding at Fareeha, still bent over McCree’s hand. “You’re just saying that because I’m younger than you. There’s literally no other reason.”

 

“I got plenty of reasons,” he said hotly. “I won’ be there t’help you most of the time, if at all. I had Han and Shi and Lin behind me. You’ll be alone, no backup.”

 

“Bzzzzt! Wrong!” she crowed impetuously. She nodded at the spark. “She’ll be with me.”  

 

“Her?” McCree looked down at the spark and frowned. He hadn’t questioned the spark’s motivations much up to now, mainly because she had seemed to be willing enough to stay at Hana’s side, but he couldn’t forget the woman with the steely gaze and the knives woven out of thin air. “Can we trust her?” he asked, his voice heavy with doubt. “She was ready t’shank me when I was tryin’ t’help Han. Seemed pretty intent on followin’ Amari’s orders.”

 

Fareeha clicked her tongue. “She was intent on carrying out my mother’s orders because she’s in close contact with her at all times,” she pointed out. McCree could feel her tap her pen against his hand. “I don’t blame her for her adherence. It does mean, however, that when presented with a possible escape, she was quick to promise to help us. Such is the loyalty my mother instills in her slaves.”

 

“Escape?” asked McCree.

 

Hana, with surprising care, offered her hand to the spark, who immediately flew and set down on her palm. She lifted her up, almost as if she was offering her to McCree and said, “Aviana is contracted, too,so she’s in the same boat as everyone else. _Buuut_ , more than that, she wants to stay a light-sprite. Like, for good.” She answered McCree’s confused look with a shrug. “She says she became a lightsmith because she wanted to be as close to light as possible. Now she _is_ light, and she couldn’t be happier.” She shook her head, a little disbelievingly. The spark, for her part, grew brighter suddenly, making McCree wince and blink his eyes rapidly. When the glow faded, the spark had become a blue-white lotus, with twinkling lights spread across its delicate petals. The vision soon passed, the petals withdrawing back into the familiar spark. Hana oo-ed and ah-ed appreciatively at the display, smiling down at her. “See? So she made a deal. If she helps us, not only will we try to get her name back and break her contract, but Fareeha will teach her how to turn into a light-sprite at will!”

 

McCree eyed the spark. It pulsed twice under his scrutinization. He sighed. “Alright, if all y’all think you can trust her, I won’t argue that point. But the two of you will be in close proximity to Amari. What if she finds out you two are in cahoots? She’ll be able t’easily snap you both up in one fell swoop.”

 

Gabriel cleared his throat, the sound abnormally loud through his shredded cheeks. “That’s why I’ll be with them.” He nearly beamed at McCree’s half-betrayed, half-mortified expression, his lips curling into a grin at his discomfiture.

 

“Say what now?” he choked out.

 

Gabriel’s grin widened. “My greatest dream as a black ops commander has come true: incorporeal invisibility. You think I’m going to sit back with my thumb up my ass when I’ve been given such a gift? _Feliz Tres Reyes a mí._ ”

 

McCree bit and worried at his bottom lip, furiously trying to think how to dissuade Gabriel Reyes from doing this. “She knew,” he said, thinking back on Rhine’s words when he had first told him of the apparition. “She knew you were there anyway. She’ll know as soon as you set foot in the bathhouse.”

 

“Not,” said Hana with relished satisfaction, as if sensing victory was near, “if he waits until Ami has gone on a long errand. Then it’s just a matter of letting him in and stuffing his face with food until even she won’t notice him poking around, researching, looking into some stuff.”

 

“What stuff?” asked McCree, glancing at Gabriel, but it was Fareeha who answered.

 

“The contracts,” she murmured as she lifted her head slightly and tilted her head, as if surveying her work. “He’ll find where the contracts are stored, and let me get a look at them. I’m sure that nobody but my mother knows exactly what they stipulate, but knowing the exact terms that bind her slaves would be a valuable step forward in knowing how to free them.

 

“There is a chance,” she continued as she sat up, placing her right hand over McCree’s metal hand and pressing it firmly into the table. McCree shifted as he felt warmth bloom where her skin met the titanium, like a flame held almost close enough to burn, “that I’ll be able to recover their names that way. If her hubris is enough,” she said, dark eyes flashing, “then she might store their names in the contracts themselves. If it isn’t, then some at least may be recoverable through simpler means.”

 

McCree frowned at first, but in a flash of inspiration, he thought back to when he had signed his contract. “The indentations. On the paper,” he guessed.

 

“Exactly!” boomed Winston excitedly from the other side of the room, turning to wave a huge hand. “I’ve been experimenting with different ways to treat paper to reveal even the smallest marks left behind from writing. Some will undoubtedly be visible to the naked eye, but others may require a fine coating of powder, for example, or some other means.”

 

Fareeha nodded, smiling slightly. “Whatever we can, however we can. Within reason, of course,” she added, with a meaningful look at Gabriel. He shrugged nonchalantly in reply. “Winston and I have given a lot of thought on how to help my mother’s slaves, but we’ve been caught in a double bind. No names and no funds. Having three people on the inside will go a long way towards the names, and I never expected to find a grand spymaster who’d be willing to help.”

 

Gabriel bowed his head slightly at her, before focusing on McCree’s still worried expression. “I’ll keep an eye on her, kid,” he promised, grin fading as his tone turned solemn. Then he chuckled. “I have some experience in keeping overenthusiastic, mouthy brats in line.”

 

Hana looked from one man to the other as a smile grew on her face. “Is _that_ why you call me ‘kid’?” she asked coyly.

 

McCree ignored her, keeping his eyes trained on Gabriel’s. “Just so long as she keeps all her limbs,” he conceded at last, twitching his metal hand. To his surprise, the warmth vanished and Fareeha removed her hand, revealing the sinuous, flowing design underneath. He lifted it close to his face, jaw dropping slightly as he studied the script. The lines swept up from the round base, ending in a flame-like point that licked at his wrist and the skull beyond. Rather than being bright and shiny like he’d expected, the gold was subdued, sparkling when it caught the light exactly right as he twisted his hand back and forth, but otherwise fairly dull as if a thin translucent layer was overlaid on top of it. He tried to work out the word, but he gave up and looked at Fareeha with the question plain in his eyes. She only smiled mysteriously as Hana grabbed at his hand to take a closer look herself, exclaiming loudly at it.

 

McCree looked at Hana’s animated face and sighed deeply. “Alright,” he groused. “If that’s the plan and the reasoning behind it, and everyone’s good with it, then that’s what we’ll do.” He stopped short for a moment, then slowly said, “I suppose we’ll take the train back in the morning and see what happens.”

 

“There is no return train,” Fareeha said easily. McCree sucked in a breath, but before he could say anything more, she rose and turned, looking at the window directly behind her. “It doesn’t matter though. You have another way available to you.”

 

A huge gust of wind rattled the latched windows, whistling through any gaps it could find, accompanied by a lonely howl that reverberated through the room, muffled by the thick walls. McCree started at the sound, and Hana shuffled back on the table even as she raised her fists defensively. Gabriel merely glanced over his shoulder, disinterested at best.

 

“Another guest has arrived,” hummed Fareeha. She looked at McCree and smiled, a tad conspiratorially. “Would you mind letting them in?”

 

McCree blinked at her, confused by the request, but he rose to his feet as well and padded to the door. Twisting the heavy knob, he swung the door open, suspicious enough to shield his body with it as he peered into the darkness outside.

 

His breath hitched.

 

Just beyond the slanted rectangle of orange light spilling across the ground, blue scales iridescent, golden mane rippling in the wind and burnished bronze by the pale moonlight, long tail swishing through the cool air, and yellow-brown eyes alight and focused, stood Han.

 

For a long moment, McCree could only stare, every sound sinking below his pulse beating in his ears. He edged around the door and took one small, slow step after another, leaving it open behind him.

 

He approached the dragon, not with hesitance, but with something resembling reverence, but less lofty, more familiar, colored with relief and gratitude. Han dropped his head slightly, his eyes trained on McCree’s. That was the greatest source of McCree’s trancelike state. The last time he had seen this form, it had been prone, slack, before leaping into a desperate and writhing fugue state that had been a brief respite before slipping back towards the edge of death. Now, those eyes--

 

Those eyes.

 

The pebbles of tiger’s eye were once again close to the surface, shimmering under a thin layer of water at the bottom of a shallow pool, yet were slightly clouded over--Han was regarding him with a bittersweet mixture of relief overlaid with anxious anticipation. This was the first time McCree had seen him this way, as far as Han was concerned.

 

McCree stopped just shy of him. He let his gaze wander over his long snout, over his pointed and stately horns nestled among the golden mane before returned to those eyes, now touched with a hint of wariness. Slowly, almost unconsciously, McCree raised his flesh hand and touched the silken fur that ran along Han’s jawline, combing his fingers through it gently. Han let his eyes drift closed at the touch, and he sighed through his nose.

 

The small noise, soft as it was, smote at McCree’s heart and he felt tears sting his eyes.

 

“Han,” he croaked out brokenly. “Han--” And he gathered Han’s head in both arms and pressed him none-too-gently to his own face, screwing his eyes shut as he felt the tears leak out the corners.

 

Han’s breath whuffed at his shirt where his snout was pressed against his chest. McCree’s fingers curled around the fur below his hands. A sob wracked through his chest, but he began to grin wide enough almost to split his face, rubbing his face slightly against Han’s.

 

“Han. Han! I was worried. You really worried me, darlin’,” he forced out past the lump in his throat. Han could only snort apologetically in reply, but McCree hardly heard him. “I’m sorry, darlin’, I’m sorry I left you behind before I knew if you were gonna--” he gulped noisily, and pressed on, words thickening as he whispered, “I’m glad t’see you, sweetheart. There ain’ nothin’ more I could ask for.”

 

Han exhaled forcefully at those words, pressing his face into McCree’s, prompting a wet chuckle out of him.

 

Fareeha’s deep voice came from behind. “My, my.”

 

Han stiffened immediately. McCree held on for a few moments longer, greedily stealing every moment of reassurance that he could before he opened his eyes and backed up a little bit. He and Han locked eyes, and McCree gave a little comforting nod before stepping to the side, his flesh hand still pressed to Han’s jawline as he straightened and tried to look as protective as he could while being dwarfed by the five-meter-long dragon.

 

Fareeha stood in the doorway of her home, her stout frame outlined in brilliant orange light and her shadow stretching across the ground. Her face was overshadowed and unreadable.

 

There was a long stretch of silence, and McCree nearly spoke, intending to break it, though he didn’t know what words he would use. Before he could, Han came forward two steps, his clawed feet scraping noisily across the ground, brushing slightly past McCree. He seemed to study Fareeha for a moment, then, slowly, respectfully, his eyes slid closed and his long, serpentine neck curled as he bowed, nose nearly touching the ground.

 

Fareeha stepped forward, and the moonlight fell across her face, revealing a serious yet compassionate expression. “Thank you,” she said, tone formal. “I realize now that your crime against me was beyond your control. You stoop to such low actions only through the machinations of my mother. I, too, have had my hand forced by her. It is why I must defend my possessions with deadly force. The circumstances surrounding us have been poisoned, and they prevent either of us from being irreproachable.”

 

She paused, and her expression softened as she glanced at McCree. “I hope you will be freed from her control, so that you may return to your people and protect them once more--along with those you most love,” she finished, her eyes glinting.

 

Han raised his head at that and looked at McCree, eyes soft. McCree swallowed as his chest constricted.

 

Han turned back to Fareeha and growled slightly, but it lacked any aggression whatsoever; it sounded more conversational, heavily laced with respect. Fareeha nodded her head gracefully. “Yes, she is here.” More growling, and Han gestured at McCree with his head. “Aha. Well done.” She smiled at McCree. “Our plan has apparently been anticipated. Han has brokered a deal with my mother. If you return Hana to her, she will grant both you and your commander your freedom and return you to the human world, safe and sound.” McCree started and stared at Han, who was pointedly looking away.

 

Fareeha looked from one to the other and softly said, “It will be best if you leave immediately. Given enough time, my mother will likely come in search of you herself to avoid honoring the deal.” McCree nodded mutely, still looking at Han. “I will go and fetch Hana.” She turned and walked back inside, gently closing the door and leaving the man and the dragon alone in the moonlight.

 

McCree immediately went to Han, standing at his side. Han was studiously avoiding his gaze, his head turned away. McCree placed a warm hand against the cool scales on Han’s neck, just below the tufts of fur that lined his spine. He felt a slight tremor under his touch, and he bit his lip. He began to trace the edge of a single scale with his thumb as he searched for what to say.

 

In the end, he could only look up and into the night sky, the waning moon drifting slowly down from its zenith, the stars glimmering among a few scattered, silver clouds, before he leaned towards Han’s long, pointed, doe-like ear and simply whispered, “Thank you.”

 

Han only bowed his head slightly. McCree straightened and continued gazing into the heavens.

 

Right now he could only express his gratitude. Hopefully, later, he would be strong enough to apologize.

 

The door soon swung open once more, the light immediately blocked by Winston’s enormous bulk. He shuffled forward, carrying McCree’s boots, hat, and sack in one hand. McCree glanced at his feet and huffed a small laugh as he lifted one to inspect the hopelessly dirty fabric on his tattered sock. He tried to beat some of the soil out with one hand before slipping on both boots and his hat. Winston looked uncertainly at the sack, which only contained his bathhouse uniform. McCree shrugged before he could ask and said, “I won’ be needin’ those. Cut ‘em up and use ‘em for rags.”

 

Winston grinned. “Good idea.” He bobbed his head in an informal bow to both of them. “Pleasure to meet you. Good luck in all your endeavors.”

 

McCree thanked him quietly as Fareeha’s shadow fell across the open doorway once more. McCree looked at her and immediately focused on a familiar pink rabbit riding her shoulder, a smug look on her face as the spark rode once more between her ears.

 

“Really?” he muttered, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

 

Fareeha laughed as she gently transferred Hana and the spark to his own shoulder. “I’m sure Han will be thankful for the weight reduction, if nothing else.”

 

McCree was preparing a retort as he dropped his hand and opened his eyes, but the words died in his throat as he caught sight of the creature sitting on Fareeha’s other shoulder. He had missed it at first because it was transparent as crystal immersed in water, betrayed only by thin, almost gossamer silver lines that traced out a faint outline of claws gripping her shoulder, pointed wings, and a familiar, masklike avian face.

 

He stared at it before something clicked in his brain. _La lechuza._

 

“Gabriel?”

 

The nearly invisible head cocked slightly, and a long wing spun from spider-thread unfurled to brush a soft but surprisingly solid feather against McCree’s temple. Fareeha looked at him with a rather satisfied expression. “It appears his abilities complement my magic rather well,” she said with eminent satisfaction. “Very lucky indeed.”

 

McCree nodded mutely. There was a slightly uncomfortable silence before he cleared his throat as he swept his hat off his head and pressed it to his chest. “Thank ye kindly. For your hospitality and everythin’.”

 

“You are welcome here, always,” she replied. Then, the corners of her mouth quirking slightly, “Though I don’t recommend coming back _too_ quickly. The swamp gets smellier as the summer goes on.” McCree chuckled quietly.

 

Han made a low noise beside him, and McCree turned to see that he had lowered his head and stretched out his neck close to the ground, inviting him to sit astride him just behind his horns. McCree grinned a little before he swung one leg over Han’s spine and tried to set himself down as gently as possible. Han raised his head and flicked it back, drawing McCree’s attention to his horns. McCree hesitated briefly before he gingerly took a hold of them near their bases. “That okay, darlin’?” he murmured. Han nodded, the horns dragging his hands back and forth.

 

He looked back at Fareeha and Winston. “My name is Jesse McCree,” he said quietly.

 

Fareeha bowed. “Farewell, Jesse McCree. Until we meet again.”

 

Before McCree could put his hat back on, Han darted forward, the surge of acceleration starling a small gasp from McCree as he felt muscles tense and relax underneath him. Hana dug her claws into his shoulder as Han’s neck stretched out as he gathered speed and altitude, drawing McCree forward until he was lying atop Han’s back, trapping his hat under his chest, his knees pressed into Han’s scaly sides. The wind ruffled through his hair and his serape and Han’s mane, tickling his nose, but the sound of it was quiet in his ears, almost eerily so. Even his serape sounded muted as it snapped and fluttered in the air current like a cape behind him. It was also much warmer than he had anticipated, and it failed to sting his wide open eyes as he watched the earth rapidly fall away on either side, the fence and the thick grove quickly sweeping past as the edges of the island came into view, and then the islands beyond as Han climbed into the sky. McCree looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the already tiny figures of Fareeha and Winston waving from beside the orange rectangle of her open door, the feeble spark of the lamp hanging from the entrance to the compound already blinking out from the distance as Han spirited them away. Almost all of Han’s body was thrashing in the air, eel-like, pushing himself forward through the air, except for his head and neck, which were oddly stationary.

 

As he turned back, he caught another glimpse: off to the left, the moonlight was catching on the bare outline of a owl, wings outstretched, as it glided alongside Han, easily keeping up without flapping its wings. A cloud drifted over the face of the moon, and he lost sight of it, but he faced forward again, smiling broadly.

 

Han soon drew even with a scattered bank of clouds that were drifting low in the sky, revealing the moon once more, his long body relaxing into its full length as he settled comfortably at that altitude and speed, his body undulating slowly in the air currents. The swamp opened up beneath them, a complex patchwork of silver water and dark islands painted over with moonlight and shadows cast by the clouds. McCree spotted the thin black line of the railway tracks in time to see the bright yellow headlight of another train passing by far below.

 

At first, McCree contented himself with observing the landscape as it slowly crawled past them, squinting at the surprising number of orange and yellow pinpricks of light scattered among the trees and channels of water they flew over. What had seemed to be a deserted swamp was apparently fairly populated, and he permitted himself to wonder for a time about its inhabitants and how they eked out an existence out here in the marshes.

 

But it was, in the end, a distraction, and as the swamp was left behind and the more scattered, flatter islands that presaged the featureless open waters between the swamp and the bathhouse appeared, McCree’s mind turned back to an increasingly desperate perusal of past and fragmented memories.

 

He drew himself forward a bit, dragging his body a little closer to Han’s horns, hoping to jostle his memory the way it had been as they fell into the bowels of the bathhouse. To a small degree, it worked, the rush of water once more roaring in his ears and his lungs burning in his chest, but it wasn’t enough.

 

He examined every fragment, taillights, girders, water, pain, a firm grip, a breath of fresh air, and tiger’s eye marching past his mind’s eye over and over, but offering no new details, no flash of recognition, no hope for Han or Shi.

 

He laid his head down, the side pressed into Han’s mane, looking at the expanse of deep black sky pierced with white and red stars contrasting with the expanse of deep blue scales obscuring the world below. His view turned inward once more as he frowned in concentration, feeling frustration and anxiety rise and churn in the pit of his stomach. There was nothing more his memories of the mission itself could give him. He had picked clean everything that was willing to come forward. There was nothing more.

 

A single moonbeam caught on the edge of an otherwise invisible wing flying a few scant meters to their side, drawing his eye. He felt a rush of comforting affection to see Gabriel keeping close by once more, as he had so many times when McCree had been clumsily stumbling his way from the gang-infested desert into the dark world of black ops. He kept a lazy watch for more glimpses of him as the wind buffeted his hair and body with no real bite and no real sound.

 

Gabriel, he thought, had zeroed in on Hanamura immediately. McCree had failed, because he hadn’t considered the possibility of having met Han somewhere as mundane as his everyday life--or as mundane as the life of international peacekeeping soldier could be. One simply did not meet dragons while exchanging fire with cartels and syndicates. He had unconsciously limited himself to searching for something far more fantastic, like falling down a rabbit hole or stepping through a wardrobe to explain how he had chanced upon something so extraordinary.

 

Perhaps he was limiting himself again. Gabriel had expanded his view from the half-remembered underwater tableau to the half-remembered cityscape of Hanamura. Maybe there was something more in the lead up and follow up from the mission, the weeks spent preparing for the stakeout or the hazy weeks of recovery in the hospital and Overwatch medical facilities.

 

As he pondered, Han turned slightly, likely using the tracks below as a guide. Moonlight spilled over McCree’s head onto the scales immediately before them, lightening their deep blue color slightly to a shade that was familiar to McCree, the shade of blue often used to denote bodies of water on the maps he had pored over in the lead up to countless missions. He had done it while preparing for investigating the smuggling syndicate that had led him and Morrison to the bathhouse. Surely he did so before the Hanamura mission--

 

McCree stiffened. He _had_ done it before that mission. He could picture the geography of the city in his head, splotches of grey huddling around the blue bend of a wide river, all enclosed in the great swath of green of a national forest that surrounded the urbanized area on three sides.

 

The azure river and the jade forest.

 

And in the past, as he had noted major streets and junctions, as he had marked likely smuggling routes and good points for surveillance, his eyes had slid multiple times over the text neatly printed in the center of the blue ribbon and on the borders of the green swath. McCree struggled to make his criminally ignorant past self’s eyes linger for just a moment on the text, just long enough to--

 

It was no use. His eyes had simply brushed by both the river and the forest. The targets were hiding and dealing their goods in the city itself--there was no need to know anything about either than their general locations.

 

Frustrated, with a growing sense of failure, he watched himself in his mind’s eye as he studied the map, marked it a few more times, then navigate away. The targets were heavily invested in the historic center of Hanamura, and many of their fronts were clustered around one large building in particular, but the map labeled it only with Japanese characters, so McCree had gone to Overwatch’s database and looked up Hanamura to see if he could find what it was. He had skimmed the article, and focused the last few paragraphs of its recent history--

 

McCree went limp, his mouth lolling open, his grip around Han’s horn loosening, his legs drifting down Han’s sides slightly. He felt Han’s head jerk slightly at the movement, and he stiffened immediately, pressing his knees firmly into Han and tightening his grip again to keep from rolling off. Han flicked his head slightly again, as if testing McCree’s hold or questioning what had happened.

 

McCree slowly, ever-so-slowly, pulled himself forward. Hana was tucked into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and she shifted slightly as she was pushed along, moving her limbs as they threatened to catch in Han’s mane. He kept going until his head was between and slightly ahead of Han’s ears, his shoulders nearly flush against his horns. He felt Han’s head move slightly, as if he was trying to look up at McCree to see what was wrong.

 

McCree was lightheaded. His chest felt tight with trepidation as he tried to clamp down on a surge of hope that threatened to flood his entire being. He didn’t know if he was right, not yet--one seemed plausible, but the other--? He swiftly debated within himself how he could broach the topic with Han without getting his hopes up as well, but nothing occurred to him in the few seconds he had before he felt Han would be beyond reassuring and would simply land to find out what was wrong. Who knew if they had the time for that, and, frankly, McCree preferred staring straight ahead into the night sky rather over looking at Han’s disappointed face if he turned out to be wrong.

 

He cleared his throat.

 

“Han?” he said, timidly at first then with a slightly stronger voice to counteract even the quiet breath of wind he could hear while astride Han. “Han--I’ve been thinkin’. There was--a town, a city I’d been to, a long time ago. Little bit of a nasty place, overrun with gangs that sprung up t’take advantage of refugees coming down from the Crisis.” He was rambling, and he knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Bit of, uh, bit of interestin’ trivia about it: just before the Crisis, the city’d been much smaller, and it was nearly wiped off the map by a huge disaster. Not too many casualties, but the town was gone. Y’see, uh, a landslide dammed the river that ran past the town, and when the river overtopped it, the flood took out the town and, uh--and most of the forest around it.”

 

McCree paused and glanced down. Han gave no indication that he was listening that he could see from this angle. He seemed to be staring ahead as McCree was, but McCree imagined he could feel a subtle tensing in his body below his knees. He took a deep breath. “Anyway,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice audible. “I was just thinkin’ about it, is all. I visited after it got rebuilt and became a den of thieves, so t’speak, but I was thinkin’ and remem-uh, reminiscin’ a little about it and, uh-”

 

“ _¡Díselo ya_ , _güey!_ ”

 

McCree’s head jerked up and he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, though he saw nothing.

 

It was hard to tell whether that had come from inside his head or out.

 

After a few seconds of silent fuming at the thin air that may or may not be holding aloft a meddling bird, he turned back to face forward and sighed.

 

“Anyway--” he forced out. “I rem- _recollect_ readin’ an article about it. And the--” He debated within himself again. “--the forest was called--” Han shifted underneath him. “--Genji National Park.”

 

Han stiffened. Then he twisted his head to regard McCree with one wide, bright, brown-yellow eye. For a moment they only stared at each other, until the eye blinked and tears surged over it, obscuring its color under its shimmering surface.

 

He didn’t know why, but the hope straining his chest overran his best efforts to contain it at such a sight, and a grin burst over McCree’s face like a firecracker. He let go of Han’s horns and wrapped his arms around his neck as far as they would go, pressing his face into his mane.

 

“And your name,” he choked out, half crying and half laughing, “is the Hanzo River.”

 

A strong tremor ran through his body--

 

\--and suddenly there was nothing there at all.

 

His eyes popped open, his arms instinctively grasping for a handhold, any handhold when he saw nothing but the wide earth below him for a brief instant, then his view was briefly obscured when his serape was abruptly dragged up and over his head by the burst of wind that came from directly below, taking his hat with it. He was falling, straight down, like a stone. He had enough time to realize Hana and the spark were dragged off with his serape when he felt a warm hand grasp his metal hand. He whipped his head around.

 

And there was Hanzo, in his human form, his silver-and-black hair streaming free of its ponytail and tunic rustling wildly in the wind, his face illuminated by the moon, his skin pale against his neat, dark facial hair. He fixed on his face, meaning to shout his fear, to ask what was happening, but he was stilled by a sight that cut through fear like sunlight through shadow.

 

Hanzo was laughing; deep, booming laughter that bordered on hysterical, that forced him to gasp for air, that forced him to clutch at his stomach with his free arm, that forced an open-mouth smile so wide his jaw seemed in danger of falling off, that forced tears to stream from his eyes only to be swept away in the wind.

 

And those eyes--

 

They had never looked so present, so bright. Despite the tears, it was as if now even the shallow pool had drained away to leave the tiger’s eye sparkling in the sun, gleaming and burning with an almost fiery joy. They knocked the air right out of Jesse’s lungs, and he could only gape at how happy, how mirthful, how _free_ Hanzo was. He realized his gape was actually an open-mouthed smile to mirror Hanzo’s, and bellows of laughter to rival his were bubbling out of his chest, too.

 

Jesse tore his eyes away from Hanzo’s and looked wildly around, trying to find everyone else to spread the good news. To his immense gratification, Hana and the spark were alongside them, Hana with her little rabbit body spread wide to catch as much air as possible, her eyes wide with worry as she looked from Jesse to Hanzo and back again.

 

“His name! Is! Hanzo!” yelled Jesse, entirely too loudly. Hana’s eyes, if it was possible, widened still further. Jesse looked for Gabriel and, feeling giddy, spotted him, too, his profile of his avian form marked with much thicker and visible lines as he dove with his wings tucked in to keep pace with their fall. The black orbs of his eyes were entirely visible, but it was impossible to discern exactly what he thought about the situation. Jesse didn’t care. He only hollered at the top of his lungs to be heard over the wind and Hanzo’s continuing merriment, “Gabo! Gabo! His name is Hanzo! I figured it out! Hanzo!” The black orbs blinked, a little nonplussed, perhaps, but Jesse had already turned away to regard Hanzo again with an enormous grin.

 

Hanzo was still focused on him, and he seemed to be trying to reign himself in a little, panting while stray chuckles threatened to set him off again. He pulled on McCree’s arm, drawing him closer. He grinned, and Jesse felt his face flush when Hanzo took a hold of his right shoulder with his free hand in order to pull him closer still, bringing their faces close together, close enough for Jesse to see the flecks and veins of color running through Hanzo’s irises, a sight he drank in even as Hanzo spoke.

 

“Jesse,” he belted out, tone lighter and more carefree than he had ever expected to hear, “I should have known! I should have had faith! You started all this, and I should have known you would not leave it unfinished. Forgive me!” he finished laughingly, eyes shining.

 

Jesse blinked hard as he shook his head, still grinning. “What in blue blazes are ya talkin’ about, sweetheart?!” he shouted back, not caring in the least to control his volume.

 

Hanzo replied with his joyful expression melting into something softer, his grin transforming into a tender, sweet smile before drawing their faces still closer, gently butting his forehead against Jesse’s. For a brief moment, as in the bathhouse’s garden right after they had met again, Jesse felt a sudden warmth beyond the mere contact blossoming in his forehead along with a slight pressure inside his skull. Unlike then, however, the pressure easily released and he was swept away in images and memories that were not his own.

 

_The muffled reports of gunfire caused him to pause and glance upwards towards the opalescent surface and the grey city beyond. His lips curled over his fangs as he listened to yet another crisis he had failed to prevent, another example of his failed solitary rule._

 

_After the death of his brother, he had set himself atop his throne and surveyed his hard-won kingdom with a prideful smile on his lips and a bloody hand on his sword--and watched it fall apart all around him. His subjects, far from seeking him out for guidance or to administer justice, had trembled in his presence when he went among them, had paid tremulous lip service before fleeing at the first opportunity._

 

_He demanded, he ordered, he commanded them to come to him, but those who did plainly did so out of fear rather than need, and when he finally recognized that--when the words of his brother were proven true--he had been struck dumb, perhaps because his pride was so wounded, perhaps because the seed of realizing what he truly was that his brother had planted in his heart germinated at last, sending tendrils of doubt curling through his being._

 

_Soon after, the “death” of his brother became his murder, and doubt became guilt, and he had slunk away from the bloodstained throne and his subjugated people to gnaw at himself in the darkness._

 

 _So he had remained, his crimes needling him for unknown years, before he was roused; even_ his _pride and remorse and shame could be overpowered by hunger for air and light, and he ventured out, keeping to his old territories, not daring to tread over the lands he had coveted and stolen._

 

_He passed through the rivers of their--his--little kingdom, sniffing at the changes in the water, listening to the unfamiliar voices that walked and worked along the banks, shaking his head at the fear and pain he could sense. The world had entered a dark and destructive portion of the unending cycle, and his subjects--his people, as his brother had called them--were in need of help to weather the storm. But he had already proven that such was impossible for him to accomplish alone._

 

_He wandered, unthinkingly, to the site of their battle, the tiny destroyed town long since swallowed up in a rebuilt metropolis that was foreign and unsettling to him. When he realized where he was, he meant to flee, like a coward._

 

_But now here he was, loitering underneath a battle, torn between interfering once more or slinking away once more. He slowly approached the surface of the water, his vision unhampered by the sloshing waves, staring at the underside of the bridge, his body curling and writhing with indecision._

 

_There was a bright flash of white light, and a prone human figure was thrown over the bridge’s side and into the open air._

 

_He watched as it plunged head first, limp limbs flopping, into the water. He pursed his lips over his pointed teeth. Humans were fragile. It was likely his indecision had cost this one their life._

 

_Rather than follow that train of thought to its logical conclusion (how many more had died from his indecision? And pride, and cowardice, and--) he surged forward, following the human’s body as it sank unnaturally fast through the water, already approaching the silty, rock-covered riverbed. He caught the human gently in his teeth just before their head could strike a stone. He could immediately tell that life still flowed in the human’s veins._

 

_He paused, old habits and philosophies taking hold of him. Did this human deserve to live? He would find out before taking further action, lest he set a monster loose upon his former people, but he would have to work quickly._

 

_The human was conveniently wearing something heavy underneath his thick black clothing, so he laid him down on the riverbed before nosing at his forehead. The human immediately felt the intrusion into his mind, his eyes bursting open and bubbles escaping from his mouth in an aborted scream._

 

_He paid no mind, pushing through the mental defenses like a battering ram._

 

_And, oh, did the human deserve death._

 

_He bared his teeth as he barrelled through the human’s memories, briefly looking over a childhood of loneliness and abandonment before recoiling from the violent, savage actions of a desperate, strangely vengeful boy playing at being a gangster. He snarled. Let him die, then. Even his brother would have had trouble indulging in whatever pitiful excuses the human fed himself._

 

_Then, like the victim of a rockslide, he was crushed beneath something that was all-too-familiar, a weight on the soul and the heart that he had succumbed to for many dark and hateful years, a guilt that was terrible and all-encompassing._

 

_And the human had carried it. He had carried it for years, turning vicious anger into a grim determination to not repeat the mistakes of the past, to save others from his own fate and that of his victims._

 

_One hundred thousand sins lay on his shoulders, balanced by a paltry hundred altruisms, yet the human strove on._

 

_He must live._

 

_He rose out of the human’s mind and found himself staring at him eye-to-eye, the human’s sliding in and out of focus as his limbs made a feeble effort at a paddle as he succumbed to the human drowning response. He thrust his nose under him and flipped him onto his neck, feeling a rush of relief as he felt him instinctively grab ahold of his horns. He would live._

 

_And perhaps, he thought as he charged forward in search of a shallow patch of river, he would defy his monstrous pride for once. He had refused the lessons offered by “lesser”, younger beings for a long time, but this human was not only lucky enough to almost die while a dragon was passing by, but he had already shamed that same dragon with a resolve that he truly envied._

 

 _And what spectacular timing the human had! Not two days after he left him in the shallows to be found and treated came the news both joyous and agonizing that his brother yet lived. Only after it was too late would he think to find that timing suspicious and perhaps not owed to the human after all, but what_ was _owed him was a setting of the jaw, a resolution in the heart and limbs, and the strength to take step after step into the spirit world to find what payment was required to settle a debt that was beyond compensation._

 

_The price was indeed heavy, more than he or his brother expected, but the human’s resolve was not the only lesson he had passed on to Hanzo._

 

_He owed much to Jesse McCree._

 

Jesse came to himself with a gasp as Hanzo pulled away. He felt disoriented as he flexed his fingers and toes, feeling out his old familiar body after experiencing a snake-like form from the inside.

 

He held Hanzo’s gaze, noting the faded smile and no small amount of trepidation in his eyes. The tiger’s eye had retreated a little, wary. Wary of _him_ , Jesse realized, and his response to Hanzo’s past, his lack of empathy when he had first seen him fall. He still held Jesse’s metal hand, keeping him from drifting away as they continued to plummet, but otherwise he had withdrawn as far as he was able.

 

Jesse pulled him back, taking a hold on Hanzo’s tunic and yanking him forward until he could whisper into his ear.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For savin’ me.”

 

“As you have saved me,” Hanzo replied, tears welling in his eyes once more. “And my brother, and yourself. Everything I hold dear.”

 

Jesse couldn’t answer with anything more than a tightened grip on both Hanzo’s hand and his tunic and a gentle headbutt.

 

He glanced below them. The ground was approaching far too quickly, but Jesse couldn’t find it in himself to be the least bit worried about it. He merely looked around for Hana and the spark and, finding them still hovering close to his side, reluctantly let go of Hanzo’s tunic and scooped them back onto his left shoulder. Hana was giving him an amazing look, a combination of stink-eye and playful ridicule, as she dug her claws into his shirt. As soon as she was secure, he could feel deceleration tug at his body as the wind around him dropped in speed and volume.

 

Hanzo swung him over to his side, smiling at Jesse’s widened eyes at the sudden display of strength before they were surging forward and up once more. He started laughing at the shocked look on Jesse’s face, calling out, “Did you think I could only fly as a dragon?”

 

“Yeah!” Jesse hollered back, grinning. “All this time, and you never told me you were Peter Pan!”

 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed in mock irritation. “The leader of the lost? What a gruesome fate I have fallen into.”

 

“Aw, darlin’, naw. You’re Superman, sweepin’ me away for a world tour!” Jesse waved his free hand at the stars and black sky overhead. “Just look at that rear projection! It’s so lifelike!” Elated by Hanzo’s answering smile, he almost added how much he was looking forward to showing off his vast collection of hundred-plus-year-old movies, but he bit his tongue just in time.

 

He didn’t know whether or not Hanzo had meant to, or if it was an unavoidable side effect of passing through his memories, but while he had shown Jesse those images of long ago, a different stream of consciousness had echoed through Jesse’s mind. There was genuine happiness for Jesse’s forthcoming escape, a giddy kind of pride that he had managed to get away with far more than he ever should have, but it was all tinged bittersweet. There was regret and resignation, and the knowledge that Jesse’s luck had run out at last.

 

Hanzo noted his crestfallen expression before he realized he had one. His own smile faltered as he raised an eyebrow questioningly. Jesse cast about for a reason to explain it, and with a jolt he found one that struck far too close to his heart. “My hat! My serape! Where-?”

 

Hanzo shook his head and nodded beyond him. He turned to see, trailing them slightly, both items clutched in crystalline talons. Together they looked like a caped ghost gliding in front of the clouds and moon, _la lechuza_ betrayed only by an occasional caught starbeam.

 

The strange group continued on as the moon sank slowly towards the horizon. The hair-thin black line of the tracks below curved in lazy arcs across the blue-silver expanse of water as they left the islands behind. A slight glow began to climb out of the horizon opposite the moon, a mere lightening of the inky night sky at first before slowly flowering pink and orange as the sun prepared to rise. The red stars were swallowed up first in the approaching dawn, while the white stars fought to remain visible a little while longer before they, too, were extinguished one by one. The morning star shone on with irrepressible brilliance that was not quite conquered even when the limb of the sun peeked out, revealing the blurry horizon where before the sky had merge seamlessly with the sea.

 

The bathhouse emerged out of the gloom, black and blocky against the white-yellow cliffsides.

 

Hanzo slowed and drifted to one side, approaching the bathhouse in a wide arc, either out of a desire to keep a good distance or to prolong the journey as long as possible. Jesse was in no position to guess; he only knew Hanzo’s fingers tightened around his own.

 

The bathhouse’s jumbled walls rotated in and out of view as Hanzo made for the plaza that anchored the bridge. The bright sunlight gleamed in its many windows, and Jesse searched for and found the windows that fronted his dormitory. He squinted, trying to discern any movement behind the glass, but the interior was dark and masked by glare and reflections of the outside. There was no sign of inhabitants, either in the bathhouse or in the silent streets of the town.

 

Just before the front of the bathhouse came into view, Jesse’s hat suddenly swooped into his face. His serape was following close behind, and he barely managed to secure the brim in his teeth before he was scrambling to catch hold of the red cloth and stuff it under his armpit as best as he could one-handed. Hanzo chuckled at his predicament, especially when Jesse looked at him with exaggerated puppy dog eyes with his hat flapping in the wind as it tried to escape his teeth. They looked at each other for a moment, Jesse trying to commit the sight and sound and sensation to memory, before Hanzo straightened.

 

“She is waiting,” he said, equal parts apologetic and angry.

 

Indeed she was, in the little courtyard that presaged the bathhouse’s entrance, the blue-and-red _noren_ fluttering in a slight breeze. Hanzo gently tugged on Jesse’s arm, repositioning them as they slowed to a stop in midair over the plaza’s bridge abutment, allowing Jesse a moment to tug on his serape and hat. They gently descended, feet first, Jesse’s spurs sparkling as they caught the sun until they landed with hardly a sound on the concrete that bordered the fine wooden planking of the bridge. Hanzo did not let go of Jesse’s hand.

 

Amari glared at them across the bridge. Her blue robes, head covering, and eyepatch were immaculate, but her skin was shiny and puffy, and her eye was bloodshot. She marched forward, climbing the slight rise of the bridge’s arch until she stood on the crest directly in its center.

 

“Where is she?” she demanded, voice hard and cold as ice, hands curled into fists at her side. “Where is--oof!”

 

Jesse had felt Hana push off his shoulder in a great bound, and she had regained her form before she hit the ground and sprang forward, wrapping her arms around Amari. “Ami!” she squealed, bouncing up and down. “Amiamiamiamiamiami!”

 

At the same moment, Jesse was aware of a presence at his side. His head whipped around to see dark, almost black eyes regarding him dispassionately, framed by white wing-like projections. The lightsmith, dressed once more in her blue and white uniform with blue-black hair spilling down her back.

 

She met Jesse’s gaze squarely, holding it for a pair of breaths.

 

“Congratulations,” she said, tone flat as she nodded at him and Hanzo. Then, with a trace of hesitation, she murmured “Until we meet again,” before she moved forward, elegance in every step, passing Amari and Hana discreetly as she made for the bathhouse entrance.

 

Jesse watched her go, his suspicions calming despite himself. He mentally wished her well as his attention was drawn back the spectacle unfolding in the middle of the bridge. “ _Ya qamar!_ Oh, _ya qamar_ , I’m sorry! Forgive me!” Amari was wailing, hugging Hana to her chest despite Hana being almost as tall as she was. “How frightened you must have been, without me to protect you! Oh, can you forgive me?”

 

“Oh, Ami, I was _so scared!_ ” Hana bawled. “That _thing_ came after me, and I didn’t know what to do!” She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and Amari looked as though _she_ might cry. “If--if it had--if I’d’ve--”

 

“Shh, shh, child, it’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine,” cooed Amari, stroking Hana’s hair gently. “Did it--did it do anything to you?”

 

Hana sniffled. Jesse couldn’t see her face, but her theatrics were apparently enough for Amari, whose face crumpled and then tightened with rage as she shot him a look that burned like wildfire over Hana’s shoulder. “If you let that thing touch her, _kalb barri_ \--” she growled.

 

“It didn’t, Ami,” Hana said haltingly, her voice admirably croaky. “He saved me. He got it out, but I was scared that it would come back, so I ran away. He followed me and kept me safe. Ami,” she said pleadingly, looking up into Amari’s eye. “He saved me from it.”

 

Amari continued to glare at Jesse. He returned her look mildly, thankful for Hanzo’s hand in his own and the strength it lent him.

 

“I know,” Amari finally ground out, reluctance in each syllable. “I know. Come forward, _al--_ _raei albaqar._ ” Jesse glanced at Hanzo. Hanzo nodded slightly and released his hand. Jesse smiled reassuringly at him as he stepped forward and walked towards Amari. As he approached, Amari gently pried Hana away from her and pushed her away toward the entrance, turning as she did so. “I will reward him, don’t you worry. Now go, I must speak with him for a moment.” As she turned away, Jesse suddenly felt a slight rush of air at his side, and he stiffened as something solid and heavy fell into his side pocket. He tripped a little, stopping his hand halfway to his pocket when Amari turned around again and fixed him with a glare that was no less friendly than before.

 

Beyond her, Hana paused as she caught his eye with a little wave of her hand. He had time to marvel at the tears sliding down her face before, Amari’s attention fully on him, she grinned, gestured at his pocket, and winked before she whipped around, her hair tossing over her shoulder, and walked unsteadily towards the bathhouse, sniffing all the way.

 

He didn’t react. He only met Amari’s look, unperturbed. Amari scowled as she withdrew a rolled up piece of paper secured with a thick red string and seal.

 

“Your contract,” she supplied unnecessarily as she waved it around irreverently. “I suppose the dragon has acquainted you with the details of our deal.”

 

Jesse nodded. Amari’s eye narrowed at his silence, then she nodded slowly. “You have returned Hana to me safely. I am bound to extend you and your commander your freedom.” She stopped for a moment, then leaned forward a bit. “ _If_ you can tell me who signed this contract.”

 

Jesse struggled not to let too much smug satisfaction color his voice as he answered. “Jesse McCree did.”

 

His effort was in vain when he couldn’t help but add, “That’d be me, o’course.”

 

Amari didn’t look surprised, but she did look angry. “Of course,” she hissed. “The dragon wouldn’t venture to stick his neck out that far if he was going to make the same mistake twice. How?”

 

Jesse shrugged.

 

Amari snorted irritably out her nose before she stepped to the side and gestured past him with a gloved hand. He turned halfway, unwilling to let her out of his sight, as he followed the gesture beyond Hanzo. He couldn’t help but smile wide as he recognized Shi-- _Genji_ , the white cloth of his helmet almost painful to look at in the morning sunlight, leading an enormous pig through the little gate that opened onto the path to the hog lots. “There is your commander,” she bit out. Loud and commanding, she shouted “Take it to the river, _tannin!_ ” And to Jesse she said brusquely, “He will turn human once he crosses the river.” She held out the contract as if offering it to Jesse, but before he could move to accept it, the paper blackened and curled as if under an invisible flame. She dropped it, and it burst into scattered cinders when it hit the ground, the slight breeze carrying the pieces over the planks, under the handrails, and over the bridge’s edge.

 

Jesse drew in a deep breath and smiled. “Thank ye kindly, ma’am,” he drawled. “I best be on my way, then.” He bowed his head the smallest amount possible and made to turn away.

 

“You’re going to leave him, then?”

 

He froze. Slowly, jerkily, he turned back. Amari’s anger was still clear on her face, but underneath was a calculating look, and the beginnings of a smirk at the corners of her lips.

 

“Tell me, _raei albaqar_ ,” she breathed, her lips hardly moving, her words quiet and almost forcing Jesse to lean forward to catch them, “did you truly meet Han for the first time that night in my rooms?” Her eye drilled into his own, her pupil constricted into a minute black point. “You played a fine game that night,” she continued musingly. “Crossing the bridge almost undetected, evading my staff, knowing exactly what to ask for when you came to me. I said as much when we met, do you not remember? Did you think I would forget?”

 

She shifted, languidly lifting a cigarette to her lips that he hadn’t noticed her retrieving from her sleeve, focused as he was on her every threatening word, like hearing thunder announce an approaching storm. A tiny flame danced on her fingertip for a moment as she drew in a breath.

 

“Once you were contracted, it hardly mattered who,” she said as smoke curled from her mouth and nostrils. “But now? Not only does it matter, but it’s obvious who it was.” Her eye flickered past Jesse, and the blood drained from his face.

 

She returned her gaze to his face. “I would venture that he helped you regain your name in some way. And how best to pay him back then by returning the favor?” Jesse bit his lip, wincing as she focused on the small gesture with a sudden small smile. “Ah. So you have helped him achieve his greatest wish: not his own freedom, but his brother’s. _Well done_ ,” she sneered with heavy sarcasm. She paused, pretending to consider. “But now, what, exactly, do you suppose will happen to him now?”

 

He felt sweat bead on his forehead, his gun hand completely dry.

 

Her smile widened. “Even if the shredded rag he calls a brother finds it in his half-eaten heart to return home for some blood money, there is something that he, nor you, nor anyone can give him. Time.” The last word was almost a snarl, the smile revealing white teeth. “I will not require much time at all to inflict every punishment on him that I envisioned for you, _raei albaqar_ ,” she said tauntingly. “Next to none, far less than it would take for anyone to come for him.” She studied Jesse’s pale face with a look of eminent satisfaction. “And so, my former employee, how would you feel about making another contract?”

 

Jesse didn’t move a millimeter. His eyes bore into Amari’s, not bothering to hide his rage, but it only seemed to feed her amusement as she laughed softly before taking another drag on the cigarette. “Your life for his, cowboy,” she said smilingly. “Get him out before I have the opportunity to do anything. Quite the deal, I must say, since I’ll be losing a valuable tool. But I won’t mind,” she finished, her tone hardening as she crushed the cigarette between two fingers. “No. I won’t mind at all.”

 

He swallowed, and, voice strained and shaking ever-so-slightly, said, “He’d go free?” Amari’s smile grew as she nodded. “No strings? Alive, unharmed, nothing owed?” She blinked lazily, pleased, as she nodded again. She dropped the now useless cigarette to the ground, a slippered foot crushing it delicately. She crossed her arms casually and leered, waiting for Jesse’s final answer.

 

The seconds ticked past. Jesse’s fingers itched and burned, sweat ran down his forehead and threatened to sting his eyes, and fury coiled in his belly like a serpent, hissing and spitting.

 

It was all he could do to allow her to bask in her own audacity and smug self-satisfaction for a few moments longer, to make the sting of disappointment all the sharper, before he gave a little smile in return. He only allowed the corners of her smile to drop a fraction before he agreeably said, “Well, that does sound mighty fair, but I got somethin’ else t’offer ya, if you’ll take it,” and he reached into his pocket and withdrew the golden seal, the ornate frog flashing and glittering atop its lilypad as he held it to catch the light just _so_.

 

Amari’s eye widened comically wide. She unconsciously took a half-step forward, and Jesse tightened his grip but stood his ground. “Nuh uh,” he said warningly, shaking the seal slightly.

 

Her eye snapped back to his, mouth gaping slightly in surprise. “How--did he--how did you--”

 

He only shrugged. “You really should be more careful about what you throw out in the trash.” He shook the seal again, making it glint. “Back to business, Amari. Same terms, but instead of me, y’get the seal. Yes or no?”

 

Amari, looking discomposed, in shock, flabbergasted, and most of all _hungry_ , licked her lips as she regarded the seal. “How--?” she asked again, like she couldn’t help herself.

 

“Yes. Or. No,” Jesse barked, punctuating each word with a shake of his fist curled around the seal.

 

“Yes!” Amari screeched. “Yes, fine, yes!” She grabbed for the seal, but Jesse raised it out of reach.

 

“Hanzo and Genji’s contracts,” he said, evenly.

 

She tore them both out of her sleeve and threw them to the ground with a strangled grunt. They barely touched the planks before bursting into bright orange flames. She swiped at the seal once more, but Jesse danced out of her reach, turning to face Hanzo. “Is it done?” he called out.

 

Hanzo nodded as a tear streamed down his cheek.

 

“You need anythin’ from inside?”

 

Hanzo shook his head no. “Nor does Genji,” he said softly, almost too quiet to hear.

 

Jesse took him at his word and tossed the seal to Amari, unwilling to get close enough to touch her. She snatched the seal out of midair and turned and almost ran into the bathhouse, mumbling excitedly under her breath.

 

Jesse watched her go for a moment before he felt a warm hand close around his flesh hand.

 

“Let us go,” Hanzo whispered.

 

Jesse looked the bathhouse up and down, searching one last time for any indication of activity. Once Amari disappeared past the _noren_ , everything was still and silent.

 

“I will relay your messages.” Hanzo had stepped to his side. “I am not done with Amari, yet.”

 

Jesse looked down at him. He was regarding the bathhouse with aching bitterness. “Darlin’,” Jesse murmured softly. “The only hold this place has over you now is what you allow it t’have.” Hanzo looked up at him, eyes wide with startlement. Jesse smiled tenderly. “I’d feel better if you were free of it entirely.”

 

Hanzo studied him for a few moments. “I am free,” he said slowly. “I am free--to help others who now suffer as I did.”

 

Jesse sighed. “Yeah.”

 

Hanzo squeezed his hand. “I will not do so alone. Fareeha and I spoke more than you know.” He reached into his tunic and plucked out a tiny piece of paper, cut into the shape of a falcon. Jesse couldn’t help but whistle softly. “We will be coordinating our efforts. I will not fall for Amari’s trickery again.” He paused and looked away. “And I will have Genji at my side.”

 

“Yeah, I s’pose you will.”

 

With one last parting look, he turned away from the bathhouse, still holding onto Hanzo’s hand.

 

The sun had barely climbed halfway to its zenith. There was, seemingly, plenty of time. They strolled leisurely into the plaza, Jesse taking time to properly admire the enormous ornamental lantern and the beautiful _bonsai_ at its feet before descending the stairs into the main street, even as he felt the silence grow thick and uncomfortable around them. Their slow movements and constant glances at the sun betrayed how little time there really was.

 

Jesse couldn’t help but glance into the restaurant where the whole debacle had been catalyzed, but it was shuttered tight, metal grates pulled down in front of the barstools stacked on top of the counter surrounding the open kitchen. At his side, Hanzo chuckled. “Once burned, twice shy.”

 

Jesse laughed, too, the awkward silence broken, though they still didn’t speak very often. Jesse did most of it. He told Hanzo the strangely tense journey through the town when he and Morrison had first arrived, Hanzo shaking his head at Morrison’s unfortunate appetite. He asked questions about the spirit world that had occurred to him during the journey. Hanzo answered all of them freely, describing the cities of formless that lay in the valleys that flooded with the rains and the more scattered settlements of spirits who made their homes in the highlands.

 

He asked him to pass along messages to Lin and Bastion, thanking them for their help, apologizing for not saying goodbye, wishing them the best of luck, and handing over the train tickets Lin had given him. He left messages for Hana and Gabriel, cautioning the former and reaching into his pocket and pulling out the giftcard to leave for the latter. He answered Hanzo’s questioning look with, “I owe him two hundred bucks.”

 

He made a few hesitant inquiries about Hanzo and Genji’s home. Hanzo was quiet for a long time, before he outlined a small, simple picture of a small village atop a hill, the trees bursting with cherry blossoms in the spring. Even those few words were enough to make Jesse long to go there, but the memory was obviously painful, so he changed the subject.

 

Sooner than they wished, they found themselves at the street that led to the steps down to the river. It twisted to one side, hiding the steps and green fields beyond from view, but they both paused, of one mind. Silence descended once more, and Jesse took his hat off and scratched his head.

 

“Where did Genji get to?” he wondered aloud. “Woulda expected him t’join us by now.”

 

“Speak of the devil, and he shall appear,” said Genji as he walked into view around the curve of the street. “Is my brother not good enough company for you? How dare you imply such a thing.” His green eyes and smile were bright enough to outshine the sun, and he ran the last few steps and crashed into Jesse, wrapping him up in a bearhug. Jesse staggered under his weight, reaching out to Hanzo for aid as best he could with pinned arms. Hanzo merely stepped back out of the way, his face alight with amusement and nostalgia.

 

“You did it, cowboy!” Genji exclaimed over Jesse’s shoulder. “You did the impossible, and in less than four days! _You got my brother to smile!_ ”

 

Jesse laughed, shooting an apologetic look at Hanzo, who merely shrugged back, which he took for permission. “Hell, Genji, I got him t’do _that_ the first night I was here,” he scoffed.

 

Genji grabbed a hold of his shoulders and held him out at arm’s length. “You have won a great victory,” he said solemnly, “but there is no reason to boast.” Jesse rubbed the back of his neck apologetically.

 

“Genji. Is his commander across the river?” broke in Hanzo.

 

Genji immediately sobered. “I tried to hold him as long as I could, _anija_ , but yeah, he’s across.” He looked from Hanzo to Jesse and back again. “I’ll, uh. I’ll leave you two to it.” He clapped a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jesse McCree. Sincerely,” he said, voice thickening. “You’ve given us untold opportunity, and we won’t waste it.” He paused. “With Fareeha’s help, we’ll have that bathhouse burned to the ground in no time.”

 

“Genji,” warned Hanzo.

 

“How did--” began Jesse.

 

“You were distracted by Amari, and we dragons have a way of saying a lot very quickly, right, Hanzo?” Genji smiled innocently at his brother before leaning close to Jesse and whispering, “I won’t let anything happen to him. I promise.”

 

Jesse felt a lump form in his throat. “Thank ye. For lookin’ out for me,” he muttered. “I’ll be seein’ ya.”

 

Genji looked at him for a long moment before patting his shoulder. “Farewell, cowboy. Until we meet again.” And with a quick look at Hanzo he set off further down the street, quickly turning a corner.

 

Jesse turned to Hanzo and offered his arm, managing to get a “Shall we?” past the lump in his throat.

 

Hanzo took it immediately, and arm-in-arm they walked down the cobblestone street, silently watching the green hills slowly slide into view.

 

The river was gone, replaced once more with the small trickle of water that made its way through the low boulders and rocks that lined the narrow streambed, the stone steps descending to it in a single short flight. Beyond, the red-walled clock tower stood alone in a sea of windswept green, eddies and wind currents revealed in trails of rippling grass. The doorway stood dark and empty directly below the clockface.

 

They stood together on the top step, next to the simple frog statue that Jesse still remembered from his mental map.

 

“I can go no further,” stated Hanzo, voice regretful.

 

“I know,” sighed Jesse.

 

“Commander Morrison will be waiting for you on the other side of the tunnel.”

 

“Sounds good.” Jesse bit his lip, looked Hanzo in the eye and asked, “Does it--does it _have_ to be this way?”

 

Hanzo lowered his gaze. “Since time immemorial. It is, perhaps, the oldest law. You cannot even look back. If you do, you must remain.”

 

Jesse looked out over the field, eyeing the forest canopy poking over the roof of the clock tower. “It’s not fair.”

 

“In our case? No, it is not,” admitted Hanzo.

 

“I want t’remember you.”

 

Hanzo started to answer, then he cut himself off. He seemed to consider his words for a long time. “I--” he started, stopped, and tried again. “I am a part of the human world. It is difficult for me to cross between worlds, so Genji and I must remain until our business with Amari and Fareeha is finished, which may take much longer than Genji seems to think.

 

“But--when it is finished, I--”

 

Jesse looked at him hopefully. “Will you look for me?”

 

Hanzo looked back with somber eyes. “You will not remember me. You will not even remember what I tell you now.”

 

Jesse considered.

 

_Memory is a universal constant. The worlds end up under a continual watch of multiple witnesses to make sure that anything that happens is remembered. Everything that happens to us is recorded, even if we cannot recall it._

 

_Sometimes it is a way for us to bond to each other._

 

Jesse whipped off his hat and pressed it to his chest for a moment, right over his heart. Then he gently placed it over Hanzo’s head, tilting it back so he could see his surprised face, his eyes round and glassy.

 

“I’ll remember what you owe me,” he said.

 

And he raised a hand and ran a finger down Hanzo’s jawline, feeling the soft bristles of his beard. He leaned in until he could feel Hanzo’s breath ghosting across his face from between his slightly parted lips. Jesse smiled, and tilted his head slightly, forgetting himself for a moment before he paused.

 

“And I’ll remember what I owe you,” he whispered reverently.

 

And he straightened.

 

Hanzo stood stock still for a long moment, and as it stretched on, Jesse felt like time itself had stopped.

 

Then Hanzo nodded. “You will,” he replied, soft voice filled with confidence.

 

“So long, sweetheart.”

 

“Not so long, my cowboy.”

 

Jesse turned and walked down the stairs, his spurs jingling with each step. He jumped from rock to rock in the streambed, his serape fluttering with each leap and his long unkempt hair tossing to and fro. He climbed the small rise on the other side and descended down the trail, the hillcrest slowly rising and concealing the town behind its green mass.

 

He didn’t look back, but he didn’t need to. As he walked, darkness began to creep into his mind, obscuring his actions and deeds as he made his way through the field, throwing a shroud over his  thoughts and feelings as he entered the doorway and passed among the wooden benches, and cloaking his mind in shadow as he treaded down the tunnel, crouching and moving silently, already thinking about how the simple surveillance mission had gotten out of hand and at least five smugglers had managed to flee into the forest. They hadn’t had the number of agents necessary to mount a proper search party, so Morrison and McCree had headed out to see if they could at least figure out where they had gone.

 

But he didn’t look back, because through it all, in his mind’s eye, he could see it all perfectly: a lone figure, standing on the top of stonecut steps. The wind ruffled his tunic, and he raised a hand to keep his wide-brimmed hat from blowing away, the golden medallion set into the hatband catching the sunlight. The expression on the handsome face, framed with grey temples and a black, immaculately trimmed goatee and beard, was wistful--and hopeful. Tiger’s eye flashed in the sunlight.

 

The darkness claimed this image last, just as he walked out of the tunnel into the green-tinged, dappled ambient light, a deep and gruff voice greeting him.

 

But it remained, under a thin, fine-spun veil, always with him.

 

_fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "[Apotheosis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ypNgvc6c6Cc)" by Austin Wintory, from soundtrack of the videogame "Journey." Just a suggestion.
> 
> Thank you. Thank you for reading all this, and for leaving all your kudos and comments, and for the reccs this story got. I am truly grateful.
> 
> And I am ecstatic to say that "Always With Me" now has fanart, which blew me away!
> 
> [Mizzcomicbook](http://mizzcomicbook.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr with [this beautiful drawing of McCree hugging Han](http://mizzcomicbook.tumblr.com/post/155223948318/my-last-drawing-of-the-year-inspired-by-this-fic)!   
> [Cantodelcolibri](https://cantodelcolibri.tumblr.com/) on her [art blog](https://dibujosdelcolibri.tumblr.com/) with [this gorgeous scene of (almost) the whole gang!](https://dibujosdelcolibri.tumblr.com/post/155290110627/claroquequiza-my-train-was-delayed-by-an-hour) Canto is also [couldbedauntless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/couldbedauntless/pseuds/couldbedauntless) on AO3, and I highly recommend her work!!
> 
>  I hope both scenes live up to the lovely art. I had both of them up while I was writing this chapter--they were truly inspirational. Thank you so much!
> 
> Translations:
> 
>  
> 
> Feliz Tres Reyes a mí.  
> Happy Epiphany to me. (Epiphany is January 6th, also known as Three Kings' Day, the traditional date of giftgiving during the holiday season in the Spanish-speaking world)
> 
> ¡Díselo ya, güey!  
> Tell him already, twerp!

**Author's Note:**

> An explanation, you demand? I was at my sister's house, and she asked if I wanted to watch a movie before dinner. I picked "Spirited Away." And I spent the whole movie quietly replacing the characters with Overwatch and dying inside.
> 
> There will be some significant departures from the movies' storyline to accommodate for Overwatch, including some cultural departures. Please let me know if I make any mistakes or if I'm insensitive in any way. Thank you!
> 
> And I am ecstatic to say that "Always With Me" now has fanart, which blew me away!
> 
> [Mizzcomicbook](http://mizzcomicbook.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr with [this beautiful drawing of McCree hugging Han](http://mizzcomicbook.tumblr.com/post/155223948318/my-last-drawing-of-the-year-inspired-by-this-fic)!   
> [Cantodelcolibri](https://cantodelcolibri.tumblr.com/) on her [art blog](https://dibujosdelcolibri.tumblr.com/) with [this gorgeous scene of (almost) the whole gang!](https://dibujosdelcolibri.tumblr.com/post/155290110627/claroquequiza-my-train-was-delayed-by-an-hour) Canto is also [couldbedauntless](http://archiveofourown.org/users/couldbedauntless/pseuds/couldbedauntless) on AO3, and I highly recommend her work!!  
> [Pizzapepzidream](http://pizzapepzidream.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr did [this lovely piece for McHanzo Week](http://pizzapepzidream.tumblr.com/post/162034731070/mchanzo-week-day-2-canon-divergent-ii-au-dragon)! So wonderful!!
> 
> Come be friends with me on Tumblr! It's claroquequiza.tumblr.com!


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